


From the Other River Bank

by Dwimordene



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Fills plot hole(s), Canon - Non-canonical to good purpose, Canon - Outstanding AU/reinterpretation, Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Friendship, Characters - New interpretation, Characters - OOC to good purpose, Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Unusual relationship(s), Characters - Well-handled emotions, Characters - Well-handled romance/eroticism, Drama, Plot - Bittersweet, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Dangerous topic w/satisfying end, Plot - Disturbing/frightening/unsettling, Plot - Good pacing, Plot - I reread often, Plot - Surprising reversals, Plot - Tear-jerker, Subjects - Culture(s), Subjects - Geography, Subjects - Military, Subjects - Politics, War of the Ring, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Every word counts, Writing - Evocative, Writing - Experimental, Writing - Foreshadowing, Writing - Mythic/Poetic, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled dialogue, Writing - Well-handled introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2002-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-06 08:29:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 68,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4214974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dwimordene/pseuds/Dwimordene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slash fic with a high angst content, now complete. The curious shall read, the others will blithely remain ignorant of even the 'pairing.' Nothing new added, merely posting cleaner copies of the chapters, as I've been meaning to do for awhile now.</p><p>Mithril Awards 2003 - Runner-up - Voter's Choice - Best romance/erotica—slash<br/>Mithril Awards 2003 - Commended - Best romance/erotica—slash</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Love Thy Brother

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

"Er ist vom Anderen Ufer"--He is gay.

*****

Boromir, heir to the stewardship of Gondor, stood pressed into an alcove along the hall that led up to his father's study and war room, and he brooded on rumor and suspicion of trouble. Not long ago he had stood upon the bridge of Osgiliath and watched the Shadow sweep over his men, driving them all like sheep before a pack of wolves. _And for all their speed in that rout, the collapse of the bridge still killed many. Four of us left alive from the thirty or fifty upon that span of stone, and we four forever haunted by that ugly vision. Curse Mordor and all its works unto the last days of Middle-earth!_ He felt his lips peel back in a silent snarl as the horror of that memory washed over him once again, and the guilt that accompanied it was poisonous. _Shall I ever forgive myself truly, that it was my order that felled that bridge, even knowing we would not–could not–cross it in time to save ourselves?_ It had been but three days since the attack, and the accusing, suffering faces of drowned soldiers tormented his dreams. _And they will for long, that I know. I suppose I must learn to welcome them, and I am not a stranger to shame!_

  


Drawing a deep breath, he made himself relax, muscle by taut muscle, and he pulled his cloak more closely about himself as he glanced up the hallway. In point of fact, he had not come hither to this place to relive the misfortune of the Osgiliath garrison; rather, what brought him was trouble of a different kind, one that touched closer to home. Intuition long ago developed had told him that Faramir would not let the matter of the new law lie, and so he had come to wait for his brother to emerge from yet another fruitless argument with their father. 

  


The Steward of Gondor had of late sent forth dispatches to all the captains, and those dispatches had been grim reading for all that they were shorter than usual. Contained therein had been the stark publication of a new law of the realm, written according to the legal style of Gondor (which, in Boromir's considered opinion, was an armed assault upon anything remotely resembling 'style'): 

  


"Be it henceforth known throughout the kingdom of Gondor, and let all those vested with the authority of high and low justice take heed: That (item one) the Enemy of the Nameless Land has wrongfully assailed Gondor and its people, wreaking great havoc and resulting in grievous loss of life and property; and that (item two) the spies of the Enemy being numerous and having many forms, therefore the twenty-sixth Steward of the King of Gondor, Denethor son of Ecthelion, of the House of Mardil, has decreed the following:

  


That in light of these considerations, upon receipt of this writ and until the Steward or one with higher authority see fit to repeal this doom, all creatures not of proved alliance with Gondor or who wander within the borders of that land without the express permission of the Steward, shall be put to death."

  


  


There had been some further elaboration of instances in which the law could be temporarily suspended (namely, a single provision stating that under guard or with a captain's consent, a stranger might go to Minas Tirith to present himself to the Steward and beg to receive freedom to walk within Gondor's borders unmolested), but clearly it had been written 'with an eye to finality,' as Faramir had so eloquently put it earlier that day. Whether his younger brother would retain that eloquence in the face of Denethor's doubtless steadfast opposition remained to be seen, but Boromir did not have high hopes for either father or brother. He had seen this sort of argument before, and likened the effect to a knight riding at full tilt into a brick wall. The wall would, in all likelihood, still stand, but the same could not be said for the rider, and he had resigned himself to the fact that Faramir seemed bent upon self-destruction in that respect. 

  


_Not that I disagree with him in principle_ , Boromir thought darkly, _and I can well understand why the matter touches him most closely._ For Faramir's command in Ithilien dealt most often with incursions, but though Ithilien lay under the shadows, still it was home to many innocent creatures. As Faramir was not one to squander lives if there was the least doubt as to their allegiance, he resented the burden that the new law placed upon his company in terms of both the labor involved and in terms of moral responsibility. 

  


And so he waited now, wondering whether Faramir still held forth or whether the meeting had yet degenerated into a paternal tongue-lashing. As his own mood was none too sunny at the moment, Boromir was not certain if he wished his brother to continue to stand firm or cave quickly and thereby end his own vigil sooner. But he grimaced slightly at the selfish flavor of the latter wish, knowing that Faramir would feel the worse if he felt that he had not fought hard enough before surrendering. _I should be ashamed in any case,_ he thought, gritting his teeth. _This is a disgrace to us all, that those two are at each other's throats, and I know well that it is not Faramir's fault!_

  


But even that did not approach the true reason for his sense of shame. When he had first realized that he loved his brother—loved him as a man and not simply fraternally—he had made certain that he wandered the halls outside the Steward's study, as if he were going about some minor bit of business that happened to put him in Faramir's path at just the right—or wrong, depending upon how one chose to look at it—moment. It had been vital then that he be able to pretend that he did not come for the sole purpose of offering a supportive shoulder for Faramir. But with time, he had realized that such efforts were futile and demeaning to his own sense of honor, which shrank from such contrived "coincidences." 

  


_And yet for years, for more than half of my life now, I have lived on contrivance. A fine sense of honor indeed! Faramir would laugh me to scorn if he knew but the half of it… assuming he did not flee in disgust._ Boromir sighed inwardly, rubbing a hand tiredly over his eyes, for the day had been long already. Yet if fatigue could not keep him from this silent surveillance, neither could it erase his perennial doubts. _Should I leave? Faramir does not truly need me as he did when we were both still children. He has the strength and the wisdom to stand alone now, and I ought not to undermine that by my too quick support._ But again, as it had been for many years now, it was not so much a question of Faramir's need as it was of his own. He _needed_ to see his brother, to see him through his trials at least even if he could not be present for many of his triumphs. 

  


_I need to feel needed… or rather,_ wanted _in some way,_ Boromir admitted guiltily. When they had both been much younger, it had been easy to satisfy that basic longing, for Faramir had truly needed his support until he learned the measure of his own worth. Since that time, Boromir had watched over him most often from a distance, through letters and chance encounters, and the rumors upon which all men depended who spent long months afield in an armed camp. The disastrous defense of Osgiliath had marked one of the few times that he and Faramir had jointly commanded a battle, and despite the disturbing events of that summer's eve, he had relished having his younger brother about. And Faramir, too, had been glad to see him, which gave him much cause for relief. 

  


For ever he worried that despite his precautions, despite how very carefully he tread where his brother was concerned, Faramir would by some means divine his secret. _Like as not, he would simply read it in my eyes. He and Father are alike in that uncanny ability to read what is in another's heart._ But thus far, neither had uncovered his hidden core, and that was largely because in all other matters, Boromir was the soul of forthright and even blunt honesty, giving father and brother no reason to ever seek further of him than what he chose to reveal.

  


For if Faramir ever discovered how very dependent Boromir was upon their rare meetings, and even more so upon arguments like the one taking place now, he would be justly appalled. Boromir was not proud of that, for he knew that their father could wound Faramir more deeply than any enemy and for that he hated him. But buried within that anger towards his father was a seed of gratitude as well, for in those rare moments of utter vulnerability when Faramir was most in need, Boromir's love found its most complete expression. Beyond that, he was forced to keep a certain distance, and brotherly affection, however deep, fell short of what his heart felt. 

  


_And so I must thank Denethor in the end for wounding the one I love most! Because Faramir turns ever to me afterwards, and that I would not lose. Valar help me, what perversity is that? How can I love him and wish him to be hurt at the same time? And he is my brother and a man besides!_ Boromir chewed on his lip as he mulled over the familiar, anguished complaints once again. In the end, he simply closed his eyes in pain for his own weakness, for even self-loathing could not overpower need.

  


Just then, a door opened and shut and there came the sound of boots clicking on flagstone as someone strode rapidly away. After a moment, the object of his ardent, if troubled, affection emerged from the hall, and from the slight flush to Faramir's cheeks and the set of his taut shoulders, it was clear that the argument had gone just as badly as Boromir had predicted. _And so it begins again._

  


"Faramir!" he called, and the younger man whirled, sinking automatically into a crouch, hand hovering above his sword hilt. But seeing who it was that waited for him, he straightened and closed his eyes in chagrin a moment, ere he sighed:

  


"Your pardon, brother, that was thoughtless!"

  


"Well," Boromir grunted as he shoved away from the wall and stalked forward to fall in at his brother's left side. "You doubtless have much to preoccupy you," he replied, reaching about to grip Faramir's right shoulder comfortingly. And when his brother leaned briefly into that embrace, he had to grit his teeth for wanting. _For Varda's sake, Faramir, resist a little at least! It is too easy to love you!_ "Tell me," he continued quickly, hoping to cover that moment of discomfiture, "will you never learn that Father's mind, once decided, never repents of its choice?"

  


"Someone must try to make him see reason! This is madness, Boromir!" Faramir hissed, going rigid, and then glanced quickly about to see if anyone else might have heard him. Which actions, fortunately, opened some space between them, much to Boromir's relief.

  


But of course, long custom and a masochistic streak could not forbear to suggest, "Come, let us go to my quarters, so that we may speak more freely." And Faramir, oblivious to the subversive meaning that attached to an otherwise harmless request, wordlessly nodded his agreement and let his brother steer him toward the stairs. They mounted up into the tower in silence, and Boromir reluctantly let fall his arm from the other's shoulders, for it would be folly to invite suspicion by too prolonged a display of physical affection. _And even were we alone in within this city's walls, it would be foolish to tempt myself further than I already have. I must at least try to keep a certain safe distance._ His rooms were in the south-eastern hall, near the top of the staircase: a convenient location in many ways, for not only were they readily accessible from the main hall, they were closest to the Steward's suite. Not that Denethor had much occasion to use those rooms, but still, they were close enough that Faramir had declined with alacrity the offer to move into them when Boromir had first left Minas Tirith for the garrisons at Poros. _'Tis a measure of Father's power over him that Faramir goes to such lengths to escape his presence,_ Boromir thought grimly. _He would lead his men up to the Black Gate if necessary, but he will not approach this hall if I am not with him!_ But for tonight, their father was safely below, and Faramir did have his brother at his side, and so he did not hesitate or turn aside. 

  


Boromir let his brother into his room, closing the door firmly behind them once he had dismissed the page waiting within. As was his wont, Faramir went immediately to the window that looked out onto the tiered gardens that marched down each level of the city on the eastern side. "Ironic, is it not, that beauty arranged with such care should look straight into the mouth of evil?" Faramir had once said, and shaken his head as he glanced at his brother. "All the defiance of Gondor can be found in a single shoot of grass that grows in the soil below, and who knows but that the splendor of those gardens owes much to the very darkness which it opposes!" 

  


To which reflections, Boromir had simply nodded, thinking that his brother had a very peculiar manner of looking at things. A veritable treasure trove of riddles, word plays and ragged bits of lore from the Valar only knew what language or age of the world, was Faramir—obsessed with words even as a child, always with a pointed turn of phrase, and never able to hold himself to a single layer of meaning when a conversation wandered into the theoretical. _Which only makes his blindness to my own double-barbed words and actions the more painfully ironic!_ That aside, Boromir freely confessed himself dazzled by his brother's intellect, but that same brilliance could easily become a liability. Faramir was prone to overthink things, or so it seemed to him, and he worried that one day that ability to explore deeply conflicting lines of reason would paralyze him when swift judgment was most needed. 

  
__

But for the moment, he is sure enough of himself to invite Denethor's scorn. He does have a stubborn streak in him, and in that more than in anything else, Faramir is like Father. I wonder, does he realize that? Boromir wondered idly as he stared at the younger man's back, tracing with his eyes the lines of tension. From the tight shoulders to the white-knuckled grip that Faramir had on the window ledge, down the rigid line of his back, such was the intensity of the other's radiated fury and humiliation that Boromir felt his gut knot in sympathetic reaction, while his protective instincts, honed over many years of struggle to a fine edge, fixed upon Faramir with singular focus. Perhaps his brother felt that stare, for he turned his head just enough to catch Boromir in his field of vision and said softly, "Sometimes I think that this war, even if we should win it, will leave nothing but ashes in its wake, though Minas Tirith stand tall as it ever has!"

  


"I do not follow you," Boromir replied, frowning, as he eased to one side a few paces, the better to see his brother's face. 

  


"There are measures that we must take to protect ourselves as best we can, but this law… it is wanton, Boromir. We kill when we must, and that too often, but under such a law, I fear that there will be many who simply cease to think! They will slay whenever they find anything out of place, regardless of a creature's worth or intentions."

  


"Mistakes are always made in war, brother. 'Tis part of the tragedy," Boromir responded. 

  


"Yes, but this is not one captain who panics, or who ignores evidence of an attack mounting, or who burns a village in his own territory because he believes it is filled with traitors. This is now a law of the land, and it makes legal the sort of indiscriminate killing that we abhor when Mordor perpetrates it! Do you not see that we grow more alike with the passing years? For to oppose the Dark Lord, we must touch that darkness as well, and I fear that of late it has begun to twist us in earnest," Faramir sighed. "Denethor is… he can be a cruel man, and I fear that in him. For all of our sakes!"

  


"Father can be a hard man, that I grant you," Boromir said carefully, coming to lean upon the wall near his brother. "And perhaps that does lead to a certain cruelty, but it is not his wish to be cruel for no reason."

  


"And so he is cruel with reason!" Faramir glanced at him, shook his head and then began to pace in an agitated manner, like a caged wolf. "That is a deadly conjunction, and I like it not at all. Add that he has the power to affect every man, woman and child in Gondor and beyond, and I begin to doubt in earnest what shall become of us!"

  


"What precisely do you mean?" Boromir asked, eyes narrowing as he watched his brother's restless movements. Although it pained him to admit it, there was something compelling about the way Faramir moved when he was truly upset. There was a hard-edged grace to the way his lithe body flowed through the motions, and Boromir found himself fighting the spell his brother, all unwitting, cast over him. _This is not the time for distraction!_ he reminded himself, forcing himself to focus. For he had never heard his brother speak thus before of their father, and felt deeply uneasy, wondering whither this internecine strife would lead in the end. 

  


"There is something at work in him that I like not," Faramir replied, seeming to grope for words for once. "Something that overpowers his reason… or no, that is not right, for he has that aplenty! It is as if reason were all that he had left, and he knows not of feeling any longer, or of faith. There is only logic and Gondor… and the power to preserve both those entities." A pause, and then in a voice low and doubtful came the admission, "And I no longer know whether to trust the gleam in Denethor's eyes."

  


"Are you certain that your own anger does not distort your vision, Faramir? Or that you do not judge him more harshly than is your wont?" Boromir asked quietly, and his brother sighed, bowing his head and clasping his hands tightly behind his back. For a while he did not say anything, continuing to pace, though much more slowly now as if the raw edge of frustrated, fearful anger had abated, draining away to leave only the hurt and confusion behind. And as he passed before his brother, Boromir felt an overwhelming desire to reach out and pull him close, to hold him as he once had when both of them were still innocent. _But if I do, I shall not want to let go, and that would be… awkward,_ Boromir decided, and so he settled for folding his arms across his chest, as if to restrain himself. Still, he knew that were he deaf and blind, still he would be able to feel when Faramir's course brought him nearest. It was like instinct, like contained lightning or the pull of a current both strong and deep—invisible and irresistible. 

  


"Perhaps—nay, certainly!—it does cloud my judgment but this has been too long in my mind to dismiss it, Boromir," he sighed, at last ceasing his agitated pacing to stand before his brother. "Or can you tell me now that you are free of all concerns about the lord steward our father?"

  


"You know I cannot. And I do not ask you to dismiss your worries, only to examine them again… which doubtless you would do anyway!" That evoked a brief smile from the other, who nodded in wry acknowledgment of the truth of that comment. "If you have failed to convince the Steward to share your opinion, then there is little to be done while the war lasts, I fear."

  


"While it lasts, you say. And how long shall that be? Once begun, it will be swiftly over, for one side or the other," Faramir replied. "And brother mine, do you think that Gondor could possibly stand for long?" When Boromir made no reply, he continued, "I suppose that hope is unnecessary to fight a war, though to win one without it is another matter. And still, that dream haunts me!" Faramir raked his fingers through his hair and seemed to wish he could with that gesture extract said dream from his memory and discard it. 

  


"Have you gleaned aught of its meaning yet?" Boromir asked, curious. It had been several days since Faramir had complained of it first. Indeed, it had come the night of the attack, in the early hours of the morning when the whole camp had lain in exhausted slumber amid the reek and ruin of bridgeless Osgiliath. And since then, it had troubled Faramir night and day, to the point that Boromir had begun to be gravely concerned for his brother's sanity. 

  


"Only that Imladris must be found. As for the rest…." Faramir turned his palms upward and shrugged, clearly at a loss. "Nothing I have read or heard tell of begins to touch upon such matters in any substantial way. 'Tis but rumor and legend, and all of it vague!" So very frustrated did he sound that Boromir, without thinking, reached out, caught his shoulders firmly and pulled him closer. He did stop himself before a fraternal enough gesture became an embrace, and the anxious worry that crossed his features could at least be passed off as concern for his brother rather than alarm over his own actions. 

  


"Faramir… do not do this to yourself, I beg you! Such dreams as you have, and have had… who but a prophet or a soothsayer could begin to interpret them? They will make you mad, if you let them wind round you like this!" Boromir said in a low voice, searching his brother's face for a hint of the other's feelings. "And who knows whence this one comes? The Fell Riders remain west of Anduin, and we know not where they be at this moment. Can you be certain that this dream comes not from their witchcraft?"

  


"Nothing is certain these days but I think it comes not from them. It has not the same feel and the matter of the rhyme, though obscure, is not evil," Faramir replied, and narrowed his eyes as he gazed at his brother. "I did not know you harbored such concerns. Why did you say nothing?"

  


"The idea has built in my mind since you first told me of the dream," Boromir replied, and shrugged. "But I am not one to go seeking the uncanny."

  


"No, I meant not that! Do you truly believe that these dreams may drive me to madness?" Faramir seemed puzzled, skeptical… but Boromir perceived a hint of fear in his gaze as well, as if Boromir had wakened a sleeping doubt. 

  


"Well… they have not yet. 'Tis perhaps my own uneasiness over such matters that speaks, and not reason," he admitted. And he gave a lopsided smile as he raised a hand and tapped his brother's left temple. "Only do not let this overpower this," said he, and dropped his hand to lay it firmly over his brother's heart a moment, ere he released him entirely and stepped back. Faramir gave a bark of low laughter and shook his head.

  


"I shall not, have no fear!"

  


"Good. Then Gondor has not Denethor alone: she has Faramir for her conscience," Boromir replied. "Surely she shall not be wholly ruined so long as you remain whole."

  


Faramir snorted at that, but gripped his brother's shoulder hard, squeezing gratefully, and where his hand lay Boromir felt his nerves tingle. "And she has Boromir at her heart, so I should have more faith, I suppose."

  


"You were ever too skeptical, brother mine," Boromir replied with a low chuckle. 

  


With that, the crisis seemed to pass, and the atmosphere in the room grew noticeably lighter as Faramir relaxed. "Forgive me, I ought not to let myself become so upset over what cannot be changed. Of late, my patience has been lacking!" He sighed, and offered a slight, self-conscious smile as he regarded his brother, and added, "You ought not to let me ramble on like this!"

  


"If not to me, then to whom would you say such things?" Boromir quickly waved away the apology, feeling utterly undeserving of it. 

  


"I should hope to no one," Faramir replied. Then, "I am a trial to you at times, am I not?"

  


"At times," Boromir admitted, and gave a slight smile, "'Tis a brother's prerogative, though."

  


"Thank you for listening, even if you should not," Faramir said anyway, giving his brother's shoulders a final squeeze. And then he went quietly out, leaving Boromir to stare after him. Once the door had shut, and his footsteps had receded into the distance, Boromir sighed softly and sank down onto a chair, wondering how it was that someone so ignorant could come so very close to the truth without ever realizing it. _I ought not to listen indeed! I ought to keep as much distance as possible between us, except that such a break would be too obvious and would only draw him after me seeking a reason for it. And then I doubt not that he would discover all that I keep hidden. The irony of it! I may touch him as much as I please as his brother, but he does not know what feeling lies beneath fraternal gestures!_ Leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and cradle his head in his hands, he grimaced, as the contemptuous voice of self-loathing mocked him and his dishonest passion. 

  


_More than dishonest, unnatural!_ No one born to the rarified heights of Gondor's social elite could possibly be ignorant of the fact that there existed—and had always existed—a small number of men who, though respectably married, preferred each other to their wives or to women in general. But Boromir, though he had always known of the phenomenon of homosexuality, was not one of the few who believed that love was its own justification. That he loved not only another man, but his own brother, by turns frightened and appalled him. But his fears could not change what he felt, and as he had tried without success to ignore his feelings, he had learned to disguise them. Deception might come hard to Boromir, but in matters of the heart, he was of necessity an adept liar. 

  


In fact, his careful disguise was the more secure for the fact that he despised that small group who would not deny their sexuality. They were rare, for those who had power enough to protect themselves were usually quite discreet and cautious. But occasionally, there would emerge one or two men who, being born to privilege and heedless of the opprobrium of others, did as they pleased without fear of the legal consequences. But Boromir found such abuse of power disgusting, and even had he not, he loved Faramir too well to risk besmirching his honor along with his own. 

  


_There is a price to pay for every desire,_ he mused. _That I know well, for Denethor dinned it into my unwilling ears for years. And the price of being allowed to live—and love— in peace is silence._ There was, therefore, a certain perverse comfort to be derived even from his utter frustration: for, as traditional wisdom told it, every sin deserves its shame, and Boromir was not insensitive to such logic. It did not help him now, with the memory of Faramir's voice and body so very close, but later it would. _Faramir wishes he could halt his dreams. If he only knew what trouble mine cause me!_ Boromir thought ruefully, shaking his head again. Of course, should Faramir ever learn of the very vivid role he played in Boromir's dreams, he would feel both disgusted and betrayed. But Faramir never would, and so long as he paid for them in the morning, Boromir was willing to enjoy them at night. 

  


_Speaking of night, it is grown late indeed,_ he thought, rising into a bone-cracking stretch ere he stalked to the window. All unconsciously, he assumed his brother's habitual stance there, and brooded on the summer sky that shone clear and hard outside. Of a sudden, he felt unutterably weary, and any thought of remaining awake awhile longer to consider his brother's latest fears about their father went swiftly to an early grave. _Tomorrow will be soon enough. Father will hold us here another week at least ere he releases us back to our duties._ Turning from the window, he stripped out of his clothes and crawled under the covers, not even bothering to blow out the candles. His last thought ere he fell asleep was an earnest wish that he _would_ dream of his brother, rather than face the dead of Osgiliath again. 

  


  


  



	2. Honor Thy Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slash fic with a high angst content, now complete. The curious shall read, the others will blithely remain ignorant of even the 'pairing.' Nothing new added, merely posting cleaner copies of the chapters, as I've been meaning to do for awhile now.

  


The sun had not yet appeared over the horizon, but the eastern sky glittered a pale white-gold as Boromir lifted his head from the pillow to stare out of the window. As he watched, the gold grew in intensity, and a brilliant arc edged over the mountains. With a soft sigh, he laid his head down again heavily and contemplated arising. Though he had not woken during the night, his sleep had not been restful, and he was plagued now by half-recalled snippets of dreams. That restlessness made no sense to him, for what he could remember seemed almost mundane; certainly he remembered nothing particularly nightmarish, for which respite he supposed he ought to be grateful. But nevertheless, there was some trouble that attached to his nightly visions and he racked his mind to salvage just that bit more that would explain that sense of uneasiness. But to no avail, for even as he reached for them, the dream fragments seemed to melt away, like ice before the fire. Sighing again, Boromir acceded to the inevitable and dragged himself from his bed with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man. 

  


For the air in his chambers felt heavy and hot against his skin, even allowing for the added warmth of the candles which had burned themselves out. And the water at his wash stand was tepid, which did nothing to help clear the fog of sleep from his mind. _The worst days of summer lie ahead of us, too. This is but the beginning_ , Boromir thought resignedly. It was ever thus in the South, that shortly after Midsummer's Day, the weather grew hot and humid and all suffered until the end of August, when the cool northern winds brought relief. For Gondor's soldiery, this time of year marked a respite from the attacks of the Haradrim, who, though accustomed to worse heat, were ill-equipped to endure the cloyingly moist air. Even the orcs made themselves scarce if their masters would permit. Doubtless, the battle for Osgiliath would be remembered as the last significant fight ere Fall arrived, which explained why the steward felt it safe enough to hold his two ranking captains from their posts for so long. 

  


Boromir, weather-wise from an early age, dressed in light clothing, forgoing the cloak he usually wore, and ran a comb through the snarls in his long hair. There were many commanders who adhered to the prejudice that overly long hair was a liability in a warrior, but Boromir found that it gave him less trouble than the alternative. No one knew precisely how it had happened, given that both Denethor and Finduilas had had uniformly straight hair, but his own tended to curl if cut shorter than shoulder length, and when it did, it was unmanageable. _And I look ridiculous!_ he thought, with a slight smile for that one point of vanity. As a child, Faramir had seemed to suffer the same curse, but with time, the curl had largely gone out of his hair. Now it retained only enough wave to give it body, and his brother kept his hair shorn short for convenience, but just long enough for the weight to tame any residual unruly tendencies. Grunting as he worked through the last tangle, Boromir set the comb down and stalked to the windows. Glaring at the bright sunlight spilling into his room, he closed all of the shutters against the rising temperatures, and then left his chambers to see to what business he could. 

  


From Minas Tirith, he could do little for Osgiliath, save to ensure that supplies and additional men were sent forth in a timely fashion. Otherwise, his chief duty was to aid his father, the better to learn his statecraft, but as Faramir's worries surfaced once more, he found himself dreading the prospect. After their conversation the night before, he was in no mood to tread that careful line between confrontation and deference. Yet as always, he had no choice in the matter. As a young man, and one who needed still to prove himself in the field, Denethor's sway over him had been complete, for he had lacked the confidence to trust his own judgment of his father's actions. As a grown man, however, he had other reasons to avoid bringing the full wrath of the steward down upon him, for Denethor could strip a man bare to the bones with just his eyes. Boromir had seen venerable councilors stagger out of his father's chambers in a daze, white-faced from shock, and such men rarely risked a second confrontation. _Only my uncle Imrahil seems immune to Denethor's cold rage, and distance may account for much of that,_ Boromir thought. _But to keep my distance, I dare not give the steward reason to suspect that my love for Faramir is anything but a brother's affection. If he knew…!_ He shuddered to think of it, for Denethor had a short way with those who were too flagrant in their affairs. To save his lover from the gallows on the charge of adultery, one of Minas Tirith's lords had had to sacrifice much of his family's fortune. "If you have not paid for his affections before, then you will do so now or learn to live with his loss," Denethor had informed the offending lord, and the man had had no choice but to agree, and thereby make of his lover a prostitute in order to keep him alive. 

  


Boromir doubted that his father would threaten one of his sons with the other, if only because they were both _his_ sons. But Denethor would find other ways to punish him, and Faramir would still suffer his father's disaffection. _Perhaps Faramir is right to fear this coldness of his, for it does breed cruelty under the guise of sternness. But it is so deeply planted in our father, I would not know how to begin to root it out._ He grimaced slightly, but then schooled his expression to reflect nothing more noteworthy than concern. He took a moment to settle himself and ensure that his mask would not slip and betray him, and then knocked at his father's door. The door opened, and his father's esquire peered out, but ere the young man could open his mouth to announce him, Denethor called from within, "Let him enter!" Boromir obediently stepped inside, gave the esquire a brusque, but not unkind, nod, and then went to where his father stood studying a map of Gondor. "Good morning. I trust you slept well?" Denethor asked, briefly glancing up at him, eyes narrowing as he saw the other's weariness. 

  


"Good morrow, Father," Boromir replied, choosing to avoid the question. "How may I serve?"

  


"For the moment, you may tell me more of Osgiliath," the steward replied, raising his eyes to scrutinize Boromir's face. "The memory will fade with time, and I would learn what I can ere it fades entirely."

  


"I think you need not fear that!" Boromir replied softly, and Denethor's expression sharpened at his words, and his son quickly continued, "But when we arrived yesterday, we told you of the battle…."

  


"Yes, but in imprecise terms. I would hear from you now another recounting, and this time, take care to recall all that you can of these riders of whom you spoke with such dread."

  


Boromir would more gladly have offered to cut his tongue out rather than speak overmuch of them, but he could not refuse his father's command. And pride, too, resisted such unseemly fear of a mere recollection. So, drawing a deep breath, he said, "As you wish." He paused, ordering his thoughts as much as he could ere he continued, "The Haradrim attacked first, in the late afternoon of the twentieth of June. Some of the Ithilieners came flying back from their patrols to warn of their approach. They were at least a match for our forces, and we fought them long upon the eastern bank, until the sun went down. Just at dusk, the orcs came to their aid, and it was clear that they had lain in wait for the moment," Boromir shook his head. "The affray grew more fierce, seemingly with their coming, but now I think it must have been the presence of the riders that caused the Haradrim and the orcs to abandon their caution. 'Twas as if they were stricken with a madness, and cared not for injury or death, but where that shadow touched, they flung themselves into our faces and overwhelmed those in their path."

  


"And the riders? You saw them?"

  


"Yes," Boromir replied, and felt an involuntary shiver run down his spine, as memory momentarily overshadowed waking life. "Yes," he murmured in a low, sick voice. "I saw them. Horsemen in black, riding black steeds, they moved as one among our enemies, as sharks through a school of fish. The Haradrim and the orcs fled aside, and then closed again to follow them into our midst, for none could stand before the terror of those riders."

  


"But they were Men?" Denethor prompted. 

  


"Some say they saw naught but a great shadow, or an emptiness, if one may speak thus; others say the sky itself seemed darkened unnaturally. All such reports ring true enough to me, but I did see cloaked forms upon horses, though I did not count them. Few in number, but that still enough. Of Man-form they seemed, but beneath their garb… I cannot say. For I could see no face… no face, though one spurred straight for me upon the bridge!" Such was the malice in that hideous, eyeless regard that Boromir had nearly been lost, frozen in place by a mixture of horror and awed incomprehension. At the last moment, he had leapt aside, and the rider had thundered past; the Haradrim had then come swarming forward in their wake. But with the passing of the shadow-riders, Gondor's ranks had recovered and closed once more against them. Badly outnumbered now, they had fought a battle of bloody attrition, hoping for nothing more than to inflict as much damage as they could ere they ended. "Those upon the west bank destroyed the supports, as I ordered, and the bridge collapsed beneath us. But it is certain that the riders escaped, and roam now at will in the west lands. What their purpose is, I cannot guess. Phantoms of the Dark Lord, I deem them, and I know not how to defend against the spell that they wield."

  


"There is no defense against such creatures that will long endure," Denethor responded, and Boromir frowned. The steward's voice was grim, and he shook his grizzled head slowly. "And with their coming, the game is opened and we have lost the first move!" The steward paused and regarded his elder son closely ere he continued in a gentler voice, "Mourn not overmuch hard necessity, Boromir, since I see that you blame yourself for the deaths of your men. You did well, and though the gambit failed, you would have had no other choice, not though a hundred men remained upon that bridge."

  


"I do not understand, Father," Boromir replied after a moment, unwilling or unable yet to accept such comfort. Instead, he turned back to the riders, and asked, "What manner of creature are they?"

  


"They are Men, my son," the steward said with a tight, frosty smile. "Servants chosen by the Dark Lord to be his own, and though their names be lost in the ash heap of forgotten history, still it is certain that Men they are… or rather were."

  


"What are they now?"

  


"Vessels to hold the Dark Lord's hatred, no more and no less. Thus no man can slay them, or so the legends hold. And now they are loose in the land!" Denethor sighed, bowing his head. "Well," he said after a moment, straightening once more, "it is done, the battle is lost, and we can do nothing to halt their progress. Nevertheless, I shall send messengers to all posts west of here to keep watch for them. But no one shall approach them or hinder them from any task save only in defense of others. We cannot afford to waste lives in a confrontation!" To that, Boromir nodded sharply in agreement. "Rohan, also, should know of these riders, and together we may at least learn something of their movements."

  


"Courtesy aside, will asking avail us anything?" Boromir asked skeptically. "Théoden King is fallen into a grievous state, and I would not put much faith in his cooperation in any venture."

  


"Nonetheless, by the oath that binds us, I may not keep this from him. And whatever dotage is upon him, there are others under his command who chafe at the bit and they shall help if they can. His son, for one, and that young firebrand of a nephew, Éomer," Denethor chuckled dryly. "That one may do much in the service of Rohan, but if he is not given proper guidance, he may also mar much. We shall see! At the least, he shall take care that little passes through the Eastfold unbeknownst to him." Boromir nodded thoughtfully, for he remembered Éomer, having met him once some years ago. Young he was, and the steward's son had swiftly perceived that Éomer was not entirely at ease in his new rank of Third Marshal. Nevertheless, he had impressed Boromir favorably, and the cloud of royal disapproval under which he was rumored to lie was a cause for grief not only in Edoras but in Minas Tirith. "I had intended to send to Edoras in any case, to inform the court of new laws that affect them."

  


Which brought last night's worries squarely to fore again, and Boromir frowned. _To speak now will likely serve no purpose. But do I not owe Faramir that much, in payment for all that I make of him without his knowledge or consent?_ "The Rohirrim should certainly be put on their guard against the overzealous in the field," he replied, watching his father closely. Denethor did not look up for a moment, seeming to study the markers spread about Anórien. But then he did raise his head, and the weight of his displeasure was evident in the cold, set expression on his father's face. Nevertheless, Boromir pushed onward, "Faramir is right: there will be many mistakes made under this latest law, and I would be ashamed if one of them happened to concern one sent on Rohan's business!"

  


"That would be no accident, for if you read closely, you will note that those allied with us are exempt."

  


"As I said, Father, mistakes will happen. A flag is no protection against the fears that prey on the minds of all men these days!" Boromir refused to surrender, and Denethor grunted, straightening. 

  


"And did you glean this from your brother as well?"

  


"I am always mindful of my brother's opinion, for he is more thoughtful than many."

  


"See to it that you do not give it greater weight than it deserves!"

  


"I am my own man, Father," Boromir said, a bit more forcefully, beginning to feel rather insulted. But offended pride had never saved anyone from Denethor's cutting attacks, and so he reined his temper in, and changed tack, "I know not why you trust him so little, Father. Do you not see that he is concerned for you and for this realm?" _And can you not see, Father, that when you belittle him, you wound me as well!?_ Father and son stared eye to eye for a long moment, and perhaps Denethor sensed his thoughts, for some of the ice seemed to ease, and the glitter in his eyes faded slightly. 

  


"I will not deny that his heart is in the right place," the steward said at last, in a gruff voice. "But his head is in the clouds half the time, and that I cannot tolerate. Be certain, since you are his keeper, that you keep your eyes open to what is needed here and now, and do not follow him too far afield."

  


"Yes, Father," Boromir replied, drawing a circumspect breath to settle his nerves. It was a rare day that he was able to back Denethor down in a confrontation, and he was not about to lose that victory now with too conspicuous a display of either relief or elation. By unspoken agreement, they moved on to other subjects, and Denethor did not mention Faramir again. By the time he released his elder son, the day was in its decline. 

  


  


***

  


  


Much of the afternoon was devoted to executing Denethor's orders to him, and Boromir found time to speak with the quartermaster about his men in Osgiliath as well. And once those necessary chores were done, he found himself once again with little to do and missing his brother's company. _I should stay away from him,_ his conscience growled. _If I find him now, we will end by talking late into the night, and I know well where my thoughts will fly! Surely there must be some other task that needs doing, or I could find something to read…._ But in truth, a commander away from his post had little to do, and Boromir had few friends in the city. As with most children born to great power, peers were hard to come by, and his childhood had been rather isolated by the standards of most people. _And those friends I did have are largely afield themselves. Or else they have their own tasks to attend to here in Minas Tirith, and no time to talk._ That left him with few alternatives, for it was too hot for most activities, and he had never been one to spend much time in the library. History held little interest for him, though he knew it well enough of necessity; philosophy was too far above him, and he knew it; poetry tended to bore him, and after Osgiliath, he had no mind to read about the successes of other commanders… and even less a mind to read of their defeats. No, the library was not an appealing prospect, much though it might be a relief from the merciless heat. 

  


In the end, he simply wandered about the Sixth Circle, following the ramparts and causeways, taking what short cuts he knew while trying to remain in the shaded areas. Even the guards found excuses to cluster in strips of shade as they stood their watches, or else paced back and forth between towers, pausing in every shadow. Not that Boromir would complain of such efforts, for he knew quite well how hot and heavy chain mail could be after hours under a southern sky. Even his light tunic seemed to trap the damp heat against his skin, and he gazed balefully at the sun that hovered still too far above the horizon. Turning north, he recalled a particular spot on the eastern side of one of the guard towers where one might catch a breeze on a day such as this. Needing no further prompting, he struck out briskly for it, with no greater ambition than to escape for awhile from the heat. 

  


The tower for which he aimed abutted the mountain, and as a precaution, there were high walls at odd angles all along the north side to prevent enemies from taking it and thereby gaining entry into the city. That architectural oddity meant that there were a number of alcoves and other spaces where one knowledgeable of the city's design and with the proper passwords might find some peace. _And that I need! After this morning's long visit with Father I cannot seem to escape from the memory of Osgiliath!_ He sighed softly, rounding a bend. Past the guards who hastily saluted, then up the winding stairs he went, until he reached the fourth northward-facing door, and then he stepped outside onto the low-walled ledge. Following it east, he had almost reached his destination when he heard someone move up ahead. Curious, wondering who else had come so far, he quickened his pace and was in time to see–

  


"Faramir?" he demanded. His younger brother, sitting slouched on a low, stony bench nestled in an alcove, glanced up from his reading. 

  


"Good day," the other replied somewhat absently. 

  


"What do you here?" That elicited a snort and an appraising look, and Boromir realized how sharp his question had sounded. Faramir held up the book in one hand, silent and self-evident response, then asked:

  


"By your temper, I guess you came to escape your worries. Which ones, though?" And when Boromir made no immediate reply, he narrowed his eyes and guessed, "Father? Or Osgiliath?"

  


"Both," Boromir admitted. _And neither now!_ the nagging voice of scorn added silently. _Now I must forget Father and foes to guard against the distraction of my brother._ But that was but a part of him, and after a moment's hesitation, he sighed softly, bowing his head, and leaned back against the wall, feeling the stones cool through his shirt. _Faramir at least is an unwitting tormentor, and if I must suffer, then I would rather it be at his hands. Stop that!_ He tried too late to censor his own subversive imagination which had supplied that very… adroit… turn of phrase. _And the image that goes with it! Why do I do this to myself? Or are we all idiots when the fit called 'love' takes us?_ That was doubtless a question for the philosophers, and he had no mind to pursue it, afraid to go down that path. Instead he asked, "What matter so heavy brings you to this place? History?" 

  


"Nay," Faramir replied. "I have spent enough time among musty scrolls since this morning."

  


"The entire library is nothing but musty scrolls!" Boromir muttered. 

  


"Not so," Faramir said, sounding amused. 

  


"Oh? Then why came you here, if not for some fresh air? What do you read?" Expecting a title, he frowned when he heard naught but the flipping of pages, and darted a glance sideways. But the veil of his hair obscured his vision, and just then, Faramir began to speak again: 

  


  


"There is a seed that blooms but once, that shapes all mortal hearts.

  


A birth of light that while it lasts

  


Doth in peace all worry cast:

  


A pain that heals, a whisper loud, yet when its sparkèd

  


Glory is past then doth man learn its nature true

  


The lighter side, the dizzied cry, the brazen hue,

  


Is within the darkness bound.

  


For in that dark doth love endure: the lover gone

  


It blooms anew."

  


  
__

I think I hate him! Boromir decided, wishing that were true, feeling wretched. He was suddenly glad of the fact that he had such long hair, for with his head bowed thus it formed an effective screen so that Faramir could not see him blush. Though whether that came of embarrassment or the heat that flared within him, or both, he was unwilling to speculate. _Of all the books in the library, he had to pick a book of love poetry! And he had to read it to me instead of simply telling me what it was! What have I done of late to earn this torture?_ At which point, a half dozen examples of miscreance came to mind, beginning with the fact that he was hopelessly enamored of his brother and ending with the bridge of Osgiliath as it gave way; and so he heaved a silent sigh and tried to think of something unincriminating to say. 

  


"Mm… I had not heard that before," he managed after a moment, and hoped his voice did not sound too strained. "Who wrote it?"

  


"Silvaríel of Arnor," his brother replied. 

  


"A woman?" 

  


"Aye, one quite famous in her day. The daughter of a nobleman, she was blind, but touched by some grace, for she claimed she 'dreamed sightful' as she says elsewhere. All her poetry is centered round a paradox of feeling: 'pain that heals' and 'whispers loud' and such like. She is much decried in this late Age, but nevertheless, I find her words comforting. And insightful," Faramir added thoughtfully. "What think you?"

  


"I know not enough of her to form a judgment. Does she write nothing but love poems?" Boromir asked, fearing the response. For of a sudden it occurred to him that perhaps this was not some chance reading, that the choice of works had not been a matter of a moment's fancy. _Does he love another?_ Jealousy born of an instant sank its fangs deep into his soul, and Boromir bit his tongue. _What if he does? Surely that is a good thing if it is true. But why would he have said nothing to me earlier?_

  


"A fair amount, but she speaks of other things as well," came the easy reply. 

  


"Ah. And which do you prefer?" Boromir asked, striving for just that touch of nonchalance as he fished for the answer to his oblique question. 

  


"In truth, it matters not. But whenever I think of Father, I recall this poem." Faramir shook his head, sitting up straighter as his gaze slipped right to where stood the Citadel. "It gives me hope that perhaps one day…."

  


"Perhaps one day pain truly will heal?"

  


"Yes, just that." Faramir responded softly, turning to see that Boromir had raised his head and was now watching him intently. His elder brother shook his head slowly, and a hint of a perplexed smile crossed his face. 

  


"Whomever you marry had best be well versed in Silvaríel or I doubt she would know what to make of you!" At which Faramir gave a bark of laughter, letting his head fall back as he closed his eyes, seeming to try to imagine the scenario. And Boromir, staring at the graceful line of his brother's throat and the wistful look on his face, had to tear his eyes away quickly and step down hard upon rising desire when Faramir turned to him once more.

  


"Well, whoever she may be, she will have plenty of time for such scholarly pursuits. It seems pointless to seek romance when Father may at any time decide I may be more profitably married elsewhere for the sake of Gondor," Faramir sighed, and could not quite suppress the bitterness he felt at that prospect. "I sometimes marvel that he has not already done so." He cocked his head at Boromir and, struck by the turn of conversation, asked, "What of yourself? Do you hope for love or only for tolerance when the time comes?"

  


"As you say, Father rules my future, so there is no point in hoping for more than tolerance," Boromir replied, but there was in his tone just that touch of tension that underlay his resignation, prompting Faramir to ask further.

  


"So you have never loved another?" he demanded. "Not a single woman of Minas Tirith has ever caught your eye?"

  


"No… not yet," Boromir responded, relieved that his brother had phrased the question so in the end. _For how would I have answered otherwise? And would he have heard the lie in my voice?_ Fortunately, he would never need to discover the truth. His brother fell silent as of a sudden a light wind sprang up, and if it was not truly cool, it seemed less hot than the surrounding still air, and Faramir gave a soft sigh of relief. And Boromir, watching him, felt relief run through him like water. _So he does not love another. Not yet! I would say he were too sensible, but that I know him too well. One day that will change, for Faramir was never meant to be alone. Not like me. And how will I bear to see him turn to her ever?_ Intellectually, he knew quite well that he had never had a prayer of having his love requited, but that did not mean he would not hate the woman who ended as Faramir's wife. Jealousy was not a feeling he particularly liked, but for the moment he could set it aside, shelve it in the recesses of his mind and forget it. _Until she arrives, or Father decrees a political match. I have still awhile longer to dream, I suppose_ …. "Tell me more of this poet of yours. What else has she written?"

  


Faramir tossed a rather surprised–but not displeased–look at him at that. "You were never one for poetry, Brother!"

  


"Humor me, then. You will some day have to instruct your wife, if you aspire to peace in your life. So, practice! Tell me of her!" Boromir replied, unable to resist the temptation. 

  


"A passing strange wife you make me, even in role-play," Faramir replied, with a mischievous grin. But he was willing to accept his brother's invitation, for it had been a long time indeed since they had had so much time together that was not wholly taken up by matters of war or worry. 

  


  


"For the water is wide, an' I cannot get over

  


And neither have I wings to fly

  


Give me a boat that will carry two

  


And both shall row… my love and I!"*

  


  


  


  


  


*************

  


*A/N: By now, I think you know I _suck_ at poetry with a capital 'S', so I don't know why I inflict it upon myself (or anyone else!). I unabashedly stole the above-marked verse from a folk song entitled "The Water is Wide." It's gorgeous, listen to the Steeleye Span version of it if you like. I just couldn't make myself try to write another poem for this, and I apologize to you all for the first one. Hopefully no one was permanently scarred by it! 

  


  


  



	3. Speaking in Obscurity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slash fic with a high angst content, now complete. The curious shall read, the others will blithely remain ignorant of even the 'pairing.' Nothing new added, merely posting cleaner copies of the chapters, as I've been meaning to do for awhile now.

 

  


In the west, the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky awash in fire, it seemed. The air remained hot and thick as glass, though a light breeze blew occasionally, coyly hinting at relief without ever lingering long enough or strongly enough to fulfill its promise. Boromir and Faramir sat still in their alcove, watching the crepuscular splendor fade slowly into night, and the Ephel Duath--hazy, looming shapes in the twilight--seemed almost peaceful for once, as if even Mordor were grateful for a respite from the humid day. Sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest and his back wedged into the corner, Boromir gave a soft sigh and raked the fingers of one hand through his hair, dragging it back out of his face. Beside him, Faramir sat very still, legs crossed and feet tucked up under himself so he could hold the book comfortably in his lap as he read. But as the light had grown increasingly feeble, Faramir had stopped reading, and now they sat in comfortable silence, as if awaiting a sign. Stars began to glitter ever so faintly in the sky, appearing first in the deeper night overhead and spreading outward erratically, pinwheeling across the sky. Faramir gazed up at them, leaning back against the wall, and Boromir smiled slightly, letting his eyes wander over him under the cover of darkness, while bits and snatches of Silvaríel's poetry ran through his mind. 

  


_It is an odd thing, to love another so well, and yet know that there are depths to him that I shall never be able to plumb,_ Boromir thought. Listening to his brother read, and then discuss, the work of this obscure poet of Arnor had been illuminating. He had always known that his brother read avidly all that he could find, and he supposed that if he thought about it, Faramir's love of poetry was only too logical. _But I have never listened to him talk about it before, not like this. I have never_ let _him talk to me about it before._ Which struck him as a failure on his part, for ere that afternoon, he had never truly realized how very vital was this pursuit to his brother. He knew of Faramir's interests, of course, but there was a vast difference between knowing a thing with his head and feeling the truth of that knowledge in his heart. Boromir knew himself sufficiently well to recognize that intellectual comprehension stood a poor second to knowledge that he could touch, that he could feel in his bones. And until that afternoon, he had never managed to penetrate Faramir's aesthetic sensibility. It was as if he had spent his days trying to see through a high-set window: he could see the light that spilled out, but the source of that radiance had remained invisible and inaccessible to one earthbound. But as his brother had read, Boromir had listened intently to the telling change in the timbre and quality of Faramir's voice that bespoke some internal, private, yet irrepressible, transformation or transmutation. And as the words had poured over him, he had wished that this strangely eager Faramir might find in him the inspiration for that ecstatic tone. _Alas, I know too well that that will never be!_

  


And so, as the slow afternoon wore away, he had found himself trying to follow where his brother led, not so much in the words that they exchanged about Silvaríel's poetry but in the feeling that Faramir evinced. _I would know what it is that touches him this deeply, and what these words work in him,_ Boromir thought longingly. He would know, because that might be as close as he could ever come to touching that elusive part of Faramir's soul where dwelt the capacity to love to excess. _Something draws him on, and I know not what precisely. Perhaps I find this poet too unsettling to fathom Faramir's attraction to her. There is a darkness to her words, and an ambiguity to that darkness_ , he thought, trying to sort out his troubled response to Silvaríel. In her strangely shaped staves, undeniably powerful and piercing, there was yet an undercurrent-- _Or an undertone, rather!_ \--that, while inviting one to fall more deeply under the poem's spell, threatened to go too deep. _A man could drown in this_ , Boromir thought. _I know not how, but I know that it is possible--I can feel it!_

  


"Boromir? Are you well?" Faramir's concerned voice plucked him from his reflections. 

  


"Mmm? Why do you ask?"

  


In the last light of the dying day, Boromir caught the glitter of his brother's eyes as Faramir cocked his head at him silently a moment ere he replied, "The manner of your staring: I have never seen you look at me so before! As if you were troubled." At which point, Boromir realized that he had, indeed, been staring, and he shook his head sharply, feeling his heart race. _How much did he glean from that lapse?_ he wondered as he strove to regain himself. 

  


"Troubled is an apt word," he muttered, holding as close to the truth as he dared, for he could feel Faramir's scrutiny as a physical thing. "I know not what to make of some of these verses, nor of your own fascination with them." He paused, seeking the such words as could convey one meaning without betraying another. "There is a  darkness in them that I like not, for I cannot see its source."

  


Faramir was silent, seeming to consider this, but he did not take his eyes from his brother. Indeed, he went so long without speaking that Boromir began to fear that his brother had recognized his dissembling. But then, "Strange that you should say that! That is why I return to her in time of trouble, to remind myself that even blind night is not wholly evil." Faramir sighed softly. "Otherwise, I would agree with you, for it is too easy to forget that ere ever there was day, all of Arda lay under the stars. Even darkness has its purposes."

  


"Where it lies, there hide things best left unseen," Boromir replied, by way of uneasy criticism. 

  


"Aye, but not all that it conceals is ill, and without it there are no revelations," Faramir countered. 

  


"Is that why you read Silvaríel?"

  


"I read her poems because they are beautiful. And because, as I said, I find some comfort in her words, strange though that may seem. Sometimes I fear the darkness that is within me, as well, and I need to be reminded that such is a part of all of Mankind," his brother replied, running a fingertip down the opened page before him. Then more softly, "Sometimes one needs to believe that confusion has its purpose too."

  


Boromir considered these words a moment, and then asked archly, "Do you speak now of that dream again?" A nod in the gloom came as answer, and he blew out a perplexed sigh. "Is that why you came here yourself?"

  


"Even as you did, to escape trouble. I still know nothing, Boromir, though not for want of searching all the morning and much of the afternoon! And I know I shall not sleep much tonight, for it plagues me even in waking life," Faramir said, pressing thumb and forefinger against tired eyes. 

  


"Have you spoken to a physician?" Boromir asked, and was not surprised when his brother shook his head, 'no.' "Have you slept at all since the night of Osgiliath?" Another negative shake of the head, and Boromir hissed. "Well and good that you test your endurance, Faramir, but is this not too much? Soon enough, you will be needed again, and your judgment cannot be impaired by exhaustion. If nothing else, Denethor will take it as a sign of weakness, if you appear before him muddled by weariness."

  


"Denethor! He needs me little, and we both know it. His errand boy am I, and only if there are no others to do the running," Faramir replied, disgruntled. "He shall not send for me, unless he sends for us both for he does not trust my words unless he knows first your thoughts on any matter."

  


"Faramir--"

  


"Tell me, whom did he summon this morning to tell of Osgiliath again? Not I! Not that my tale would have differed from yours, but he does not care to ask. Your word is sufficient for him." Faramir sighed and lowered his hand from his face, leaning his head back against the smooth tower wall ere he turned slightly to gaze at Boromir's silhouette. "I am sorry, Boromir, but though I do not grudge you that trust that you have, 'tis hard to have dangled before me what I want most but may never have: Father's good will!"

  


"I understand," Boromir managed, resisting the urge to grab his brother and shake him. Or else embrace him, as he might have when they had been still boys. But if he did that, he would be sorely tempted to kiss him. And so he did nothing, only let the ache of longing wash through him as he wondered: _How does he manage to strike ever squarely upon truth without ever intending or realizing it? To have his desire dangled before him, indeed! He fears Father's cruelty for its reasonableness, but does he begin to imagine his own unintentional cruelty, which otherwise would be kindness? Ah, Faramir, if only you knew how well I understand your pain!_ And to his surprise, he felt Faramir fumble for his hand in the darkness and squeeze gently. Then his brother sighed, softly and with feeling, ere he released him again. In another world, it might have been much, but Boromir bit his lip and reminded himself sternly that that gesture meant absolutely nothing to Faramir, except that he was grateful for Boromir's support. 

  


"Once again, you ought not to let me complain to you like this. It becomes a habit!" 

  


"It has always been a habit between us," Boromir responded, attempting with a shrug to recast his composure. "And why should it not? Whatever your Silvaríel writes, some secrets can kill us if we hold onto them too long."

  


"I hope I have none of those," Faramir replied. _And I know that I have too many of them!_ Boromir thought. "Or rather, that I shall release them ere they wound too deep!" A pause, then, "What of you, brother?"

  


"What of me?" 

  


Another silence, then Faramir laughed softly and, seeming somewhat embarrassed, said, "A foolish question, I suppose, for I have never known you to keep secrets."

  


"This from the man who spilled ink across Father's desk once, and spent the better part of the rest of the day hiding beneath my bed!" Boromir parried, trying to inject a touch of levity into their conversation and turn aside from matters that touched him too closely. "I recall keeping that a secret."

  


His brother laughed and gave him a playful shove, and then had to dodge the jab at his ribs that came as answer. "And I recall that it was you who said we should creep into the study to play. And had you not insisted on chasing me, I would never have tried to dive between the desk and the chair, so the ink atop the former would have been safe enough!" Faramir shook his head. "You had as much stake in keeping that quiet as did I."

  


"Not that it helped, for Denethor had but to look at me sternly for a moment, and he knew what had happened," Boromir said. "But I did not tell him who broke Mother's clock!"

  


"No, you did not. But as you said, Father discovered the guilty party in spite of your silence," Faramir replied. "And once he had, you confessed that you had known it was me, so you did very poorly on both occasions to keep the secret secret!"

  


"Is it my fault that we have Denethor for a father?"

  


"Alas, if it is, I am as much to blame for that as are you," Faramir chuckled, and then shook his head. "He slapped me for that ink in any case, and the harder for having been a coward not to face him immediately! After the clock incident, I found it better to simply tell him and let him spend his anger quickly, ere it had time to build and brood for very long. The bruising was not so bad that way," he added. 

  


"I tried to intervene on your behalf, but I fear an eleven year-old boy has little sway with his father at such times."

  


"And I thank you for it, but I likely deserved a slap," Faramir replied, amused. 

  


"Well, Father thrashed me for my part in it, too," Boromir replied. "He thought I set a bad example by encouraging you to hide or by keeping secret your misdeeds. As the elder of us, I was to keep you honest. Thus my fault was the graver, or so he said then, and deserved a harsher punishment."

  


"Perhaps there are some benefits to being ever overlooked," his brother replied sympathetically. 

  


"Perhaps," Boromir allowed generously, and shook his head for the boy he had been. _For the children we both were once. Life was much simpler then._ "I say it only to remind you that you did not suffer alone."

  


"I never have," Faramir said softly, sobering again. "You have stood ever at my side in all my trials, or else just before me. Why do you choose that post, Boromir? Why, when you know full well that there is no end to the hurt this world can inflict?"

  


"Because you are my brother," Boromir replied. And then, after a heartbeat's hesitation: "Because I love you." So he said, and was surprised at how much it hurt to say that, and know that his brother would not--could not possibly--begin to realize how true were those words, or how deep his feelings ran. _But at least I had the chance to tell him, even if I dare not say all that is in my heart._

  


"I know," Faramir replied, and as they stood to return to the Citadel, continued, "I know it well, for I love you, too." He laid a hand upon his brother's shoulder and walked beside him as they descended, and Boromir did not speak as they went, unable to trust his voice to answer. 

  


  



	4. Ambiguity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slash fic with a high angst content, now complete. The curious shall read, the others will blithely remain ignorant of even the 'pairing.' Nothing new added, merely posting cleaner copies of the chapters, as I've been meaning to do for awhile now.

 

  


I love you. _Words whispered into his mouth, brushing against his lips dark hair and grey eyes that seemed so very familiar, and yet inscrutable yearning so powerful he could scarcely breathe._ Faramir? _Sand beneath his feet_ Why am I in Harad? Where are we? 

  


Here, _Faramir replied and crouched suddenly near him, holding something up in his hand._ We are here. 

  


Where? _He reached for the object in his brother's cupped hand, and received a book._

  


The world blooms but once in each man's heart, _Faramir said helpfully._ We are the seeds. 

  


But nothing grows here! _he objected, watching as Faramir scooped a handful of sand from the ground and let the yellow grains flow away through his fingers._

  


This is the kingdom of Denethor, and soon it will be yours, Brother, _Faramir replied._ Tend it well, and be certain that you recall the words.

  


What words? _he demanded, opening the book. But the pages were blank; they fell out of their binding, and ere they touched the ground they crumbled to ash._

  


I love you! _Faramir whispered, stretching out a hand to touch him._

  


Boromir gasped and woke, rigid with anticipation, expecting at any moment to feel the brush of his brother's fingers. Sweat drenched him, and he hissed as he buried his face in his pillow, attempting to concentrate, to step back from the throbbing sensuality of the last few moments of that dream, and to ignore his body's eager response to it. Finally, cursing softly, he threw the sheets off and clambered off to the washroom, where he bent over the basin and poured the entire pitcher of water over his head, letting the water run down him, while he strove to make his mind as blank as the pages of the dream-book. The tactic might have been more effective had the water been cooler, but the heat was merciless, having grown only worse in the past two days. Nevertheless, after another few minutes, he felt the tension unwind within him, and he sighed softly as he reused the water to take a more thorough bath. _What did that mean in any case?_ he wondered, reviewing in his mind as much of the dream sequence as he could recall. _Books with empty pages and Faramir spouting cryptic nonsense. 'We are the seeds'?_ Shaking his head, he wrung the water out of his hair and went to find some clean clothes. 

  


And as he dressed, he considered that final segment, for there was that 'I love you' still to deal with, will he or nil he. "I love you," Faramir had told him two nights ago, and he could not seem to forget it. It was so very maddening in its superficial resemblance to the declaration he so desperately longed to hear, seeming to mock his anguished desire. _Why does it seem as though all of Arda conspires against me in the matter of my brother?_ he demanded of the unfeeling sky, as he belted his trousers and pulled on one of his older shirts. As he did so, he glanced over at the writing desk, which bore now a number of thick, leather-bound volumes, and he sighed softly. Doubtless some of the confusion of his dreams stemmed from late nights spent reading the convoluted prose of long-dead loremasters. Such learned pursuits were hardly his passion, particularly after a long, sweltering day, but neither were they his idea. _But I could never refuse Faramir anything, and especially in this matter I worry about him._ His brother had very nearly missed a step on the long and steep way down from the tower two nights ago, so suddenly and sharply had that accursed dream-vision assailed him. And while Faramir still insisted that he was well enough, the very next day he had asked Boromir to help him in his hunt for the key to the rhyme's riddling words. And loath though he was to be drawn into such research, Boromir had agreed, for the paradoxical reasons that his brother had asked him and that such activities gave him a perfect excuse to avoid the other in the evenings. 

  


For after he and Faramir had descended from the rampart on the eastern tower's heights, Boromir had resolved that he would no longer seek out his younger brother. _Every encounter does naught but make it more difficult to hide what I feel, and I dare not risk discovery._ More than that, it hurt too much to be constantly reminded that his brother could never love him as he wished to be loved. Besides, he had other tasks that needed careful and undivided attention: Denethor claimed much of his time, especially in the mornings, which were devoted to the enigma of Rohan. For no sooner had the steward sent out a messenger bearing the dark tidings of the Riders, than another had thundered through the gates of Minas Tirith. A messenger out of Rohan, the man had been grim-faced as he had delivered his message: a new menace had been spotted that took the guise of riders in black, and what did Gondor know of them? Such questions and tidings might not be cause for surprise coming from Edoras, but the man had borne Éomer's livery, not Théoden's, and that breach of protocol called for careful handling. Rohan's king might be aged and obdurate in his despairing opposition to war, but let him learn of his nephew's overtures to Gondor, even if not made in Rohan's name, and the wrath of the court would fall upon Éomer like an avalanche. "Indisputably, the boy has an instinct for trouble," Denethor had said behind closed doors, when he and Boromir were alone. "He might make a fine politician if only he would learn subtlety!"

  


Doubtless that was true. But privately, Boromir could not but admire Éomer's quick response, and the sheer nerve it took to dare even a sovereign's wrath at need. The Third Marshal did not lack for guts, but Denethor might be quite correct to think him an unstable political force, and one that could not be relied upon too closely, lest Gondor offend Rohan's royal house. _Even if Éomer does what is needed, while the House of Éorl sits stagnating and waits for doom to fall!_ If it were Théodred who had sent the message, Minas Tirith might fear less to put its trust in such under-the-table dealings, but Éomer had lost too much in standing at home to warrant good faith. Cold logic, that, as politics demanded, but Boromir had felt his disgust simmer hotly beneath the mask of his neutrality before the messenger. _He may lack the subtlety of an ink-swiller,_ he thought, _but at least we know always where we stand with him, and that to me is much. Éomer recognizes the danger and would do something to oppose it at least, and that is a rare courage that deserves to be treated with greater honor than we can give!_ His father, he suspected, knew what he felt, for Denethor had watched him closely throughout the interview, but Boromir had said nothing, only listened as the steward had politely but adroitly avoided a firm answer.

  


What would happen next between Gondor and Rohan was now a matter of guesswork, but Boromir had listened to the table talk, the off-watch (and on-watch!) conversations, and knew that men were nervous, uncertain whether the old ties that had bound the two realms together would endure. _They are hopeful of it, at least,_ Boromir thought. _Since its creation, Rohan has been an ally: having been birthed out of Gondor's woes, there was much blood in common between us, even then._ Still, that was long ago, and before the threat of Mordor, who could say whether ancient amity would remain true? "Have faith!" Faramir had advised him. "The Ithilien guard and that of Cair Andros often meet Rohan's sweep riders in the eastern reaches of Anórien, and sometimes we do cross into the Eastfold at need. Whatever word comes out of Edoras, the people at least are not blind. They have suffered Mordor's incursions, and they know well that war comes to all, heedless of the court's stated position. I think that when the pinch comes, if Théoden does not declare himself opposed to the Dark Lord, there will be a ground swell of rebellion in that land." 

  


But for the moment, at least, rebellion--or the promise of it--was of little use, and Boromir woke each morning under a cloud of dread as he listened to his father's councilors argue among themselves. There were no fools who advised the steward, for Denethor would not tolerate such, but there were those who were more optimistic than many and others who were depressingly pessimistic. For his part, Boromir had decided already that Gondor's prospects were bleak, and though none could call Minas Tirith weak or overly vulnerable, it came down to the question of steel and men. _And we have not enough of either to throw the enemy back for long. We have, perhaps, enough strength to hurt him, even badly, and thereby diminish Mordor's capacity to wage war for some years ere the Dark Lord rises again, but Gondor shall fall. Sooner or later, we will be overwhelmed, and Rohan with us. And then what? Who shall stand, if we are laid low_? Boromir knew not the answer to that question, and no one else on the council could hazard a guess, but then again, what mattered such concerns? By the time they were ripe for consideration, it was doubtful that any who stood on this humid morning before the steward would be left alive. It was hard enough to sit in session and discuss the need to remove the greater part of the noncombatants of the city to the remote reaches of the realm, so that in the end, there would be still Gondorrim, though the kingdom lie in ashes. To look beyond their own children to those of the scattered folk of Eriador was beyond them, and Boromir, no more or less than any other, put thought of such rustics quickly from his mind. There was no time, none at all, to spare for them, and though he wished them well, they were not his concern. And all the while, as he listened to and argued with the councilors and the steward, in the back of his mind he thought now ever of those accursed words that had begun to haunt him no less than Faramir: _There shall be shown a token / that doom is near at hand/ Isildur's Bane shall waken / and the Halfling forth shall stand!_

  


 

  


***

  


Later that week, Faramir stood outside his father's study, waiting, and he found it ironic, though not unfitting, that he should take his brother's place and lie in wait for Boromir. For of late, Boromir had taken to spending more and more hours in the steward's presence, and their conversations--when they had them--were hurried and brief. _Curt, almost, and there is in his voice and gestures an uncharacteristic agitation,_ Faramir mused. _Almost, I would think he does not wish to speak to me, or even to see me._ To be fair, his brother had many excuses, and he knew full well how hard Denethor could drive others to do his will and bidding, but he sensed an aura of deliberate avoidance in Boromir's recent schedule. _Avoidance and something not unlike pain,_ the younger man continued his reflections, tugging at a longish strand of hair in a gesture habitual to him when he was attempting to chase down some elusive insight. _I noticed it first three days ago, after we stayed late up on the tower ramparts. He was strangely silent all the way down to the level streets, and I sensed that something troubled him, though I know not what._ It was enough to make him wonder whether he had said or done something to offend Boromir, but if he had, it was most unlike his brother to keep silent about the matter. 

  


In the end, his speculations chased themselves in circles, returning ever to his ignorance of the cause of Boromir's behavior, and he sighed softly. _If I am at fault, then I would make amends, but I cannot do so unless he will speak with me at least!_ Weary and dispirited, Faramir bowed his head and wondered darkly whether Denethor might not be at the base of this evasiveness. _For certain it is that the lord steward my father does not wish me to know overmuch of what passes in council, for Boromir is not the only councilor of whom I see little, where in former times we spoke often._ If it were true, and Boromir was hiding something from him on Denethor's orders, then it hurt that his brother could not simply tell him so and have done with it. _Surely he does not think me so cruelly disrespectful that I would force him to choose between the command of our father and liege lord and a brother's sense of slight,_ Faramir thought, and could not help but feel somewhat insulted by the idea that his brother could misread him so. _Or perhaps I helped him there, too._ _Perhaps I said more than I realized that night, when I complained of Denethor's obvious favor for him._

  


Truthfully, even he was surprised by the level of bitterness that Denethor's favoritism awoke in him, for he had thought that long years of absence would wear away his sense of grievance, or at least inure him against it. But though former visits home had been marked by a cold, if generally civilized, formality between himself and the steward, it needed but the stimulus of Boromir's presence to send the three of them plummeting back into patterns of interaction that hearkened back to the brothers' childhood. Denethor's younger son was, on the one hand, vastly disappointed by this, but also darkly amused by the fact that the steward, no less than he, was weak enough to let old prejudice color his behavior. _At least I do not envy Boromir, not to the point of anger or spiteful jealousy,_ Faramir thought, and heaved another sigh, wondering just how late his brother planned to remain shut up in their father's chambers. _Not that it matters,_ he thought. _It is not as if I shall get any rest tonight, any more than I have any other night since Osgiliath._ That dream, so laden with desperate urgency, refused to leave him, and though he thought he had adapted to its day-time visitations well enough, so that he did not falter in his tasks, by night it grew in strength, tearing him from his sleep. _It has been almost a week since I slept more than an hour or two at a time._ Faramir bit his lip, and for all that he believed sincerely that it was a sign, and in itself benign, that did not mean it could not kill him. _If I have not solved this puzzle ere I return to Ithilien, it will take but little time for weariness to catch up to me, and then_  ! There were myriad ways that a mistake could kill a man in the wild, and Faramir had seen most of them. He was therefore not eager to be added to that list of unfortunates who had paid for their unwitting errors with their lives. 

  


In the meantime, fatigue had other, less deadly, but to him no less worrisome consequences, for his exhaustion only exacerbated his sense of grievance toward his father, and made him both short-tempered and short-sighted. For one accustomed to swift comprehension of any problem put to him, it was frustrating to read and reread the same passage four or five times because he could scarcely keep his eyes open or his thoughts from wandering. And the weight of weariness threatened to mire him in that frustration and agonized desperation. _Now do I need most Boromir's help and support, and so of course he is more distant than I have ever known him to be! What is this strange resistance to me that I sense in him? Whence comes it, and what can I do to change it?_ Such questions could only be answered by one man, and Faramir sat on the urge to pace, trying to conserve his energy. _What under Varda's skies do they speak of in there?!_ Closing his eyes, he tried to shut out worry, anticipation, and all such lesser demons, struggling for equilibrium. _I need him I need his help, and more than that his friendship his affection I need him to believe me when I say that I cannot do this alone!_

  


At last, the sound of a door opening quietly drew him once more out of his thoughts, and he looked up to see Boromir emerge from the hall. His brother was in the process of tying his long hair back out of his face, and he seemed to be rather preoccupied, which might have given Faramir pause, but that he was desperate to resolve whatever lay between them and so be rid of the distraction. "Another late night?" he inquired, and Boromir turned sharply toward the sound of his voice. 

  


"Quite," his brother replied, and to one who knew him well, there was no mistaking the subtle cues of voice and body language. Boromir was nervous, anticipating some unpleasant conversation, clearly, and Faramir carefully drew a deep breath to settle his own nerves. He had never truly faced Boromir as an opponent, not though they had sparred often together, either physically or verbally, and it was a wrench to see his brother through the eyes of an antagonist. "How long have you waited here?"

  


"An hour perhaps," Faramir replied, coming forward to stand directly before the other, and he sensed Boromir tense. "Why do you do that?"

  


"Do what?" Boromir demanded, rather more defensively than he had intended. 

  


"Please!" Faramir sighed, letting a note of pleading enter his voice, "Do not seek to turn me aside with so poor a gambit! I ask little enough, just the answer to one question!"

  


"And what question is that?"

  


"Have I done aught to offend you of late?" he demanded, and pinned his brother under a penetrating stare that would permit no evasion. Boromir was silent for awhile--for so long, in fact, that Faramir began to worry indeed, for he had rather counted upon a response, one way or the other. But patience won the day, and at last, his brother sighed softly. 

  


"No, you have not," he replied heavily.

  


"Then why do you avoid my company so diligently? Or is my temper so very short as to make me unbearable even to you?" Faramir asked, striving for an element of biting humor with that last remark, but Boromir did not seem to catch on to it. 

  


"Of course not," he said instead, and glanced down and to one side in troubled reflection as he considered his words. "I simply there has been much on my mind, and I feel a need to be alone, that is all."

  
__

Is it truly, Brother? Faramir wondered, eyes narrowing. Weary though he was, he did not miss the hesitation in his brother's voice, nor its implications. "I think that that is not all, Boromir," he said as gently as he could manage while remaining still firm. "If I trouble you in some way, tell me and I shall take care not to do so in the future, but a clumsy lie does little to quiet my doubts in this matter, whatever it be!" And Boromir, desperately seeking an escape, found himself simply staring at his brother, feeling caught in a snare of his own crafting. _What shall I say? What can I say? Nothing less than the truth will suffice to appease him now, but I dare not speak it!_ "Boromir." Faramir murmured softly, sounding desperate himself, and the older man closed his eyes in pain for a moment. 

  


Finally, he drew a breath and, gazing straight into his brother's eyes and praying that what he said now would suffice without driving Faramir from him, replied, "There are things that I cannot share, not even with you, Faramir. Believe me when I say that I wish it were otherwise, for secrecy hurts, but I _cannot_ tell you all!" There followed another profound silence, as Faramir searched his face intently, and for a moment, Boromir was certain that the ploy had failed, and that his brother, having been slighted now for several days, would ask further. But then:

  


"Then why did you not simply say so, Boromir?" Faramir asked, and the tension seemed to go out of him in a rush. "I would never ask you to tell me something that you were not free to tell. You know that, do you not?"

  


"I should," Boromir replied, feeling almost giddy with relief that he had been spared. "I am sorry, Faramir, I never intended to slight you."

  


"And I should have asked sooner, but I, too, have had much on my mind." Faramir replied, letting drop the matter, though something nagged at him. Some doubt or a sense that for all the honesty of that answer, there was another meaning to it that he had missed. But for the moment, he was too weary to pursue the matter with his usual vigor, doubting, even, that he read the other aright. _Later_ , he decided, _I shall give it what attention I can manage, but not now. I cannot manage an argument with him now!_ Instead, he asked,"When I first went to Ithilien, I did so in part because I felt I would depend too much upon you. Do you recall that?"

  


"How could I forget it?" Boromir asked, shaking his head, drawing his brother alongside him as he resumed walking. 

  


"It has been nineteen years, but I still depend upon you," Faramir admitted, and proffered a somewhat melancholy half-smile. "I fear you shall never be rid of me!" 

  


Boromir managed to laugh at that, though the bittersweet ache in his heart was hard to ignore or disguise. _Never could I wish to be wholly rid of him, for the fault lies in me. What marvelous irony, that you say ever all that I could wish to hear, brother, and yet mean none of it as I would wish you to mean it!_ Had he noted the look in his brother's eyes, he might have recognized those words for what they were: an oblique warning, and a promise, but he kept his eyes on the hall before him, unwilling to tempt fate. It was a small thing, a slight misstep in the elaborate dance that kept him ever beyond his brother's suspicion, but fate has a way of seizing upon such errors. But his relief at having escaped was such that the seed of his brother's doubt did not take root in his heart. And if it did not itself bear fruit, it was yet fertile ground for the growth of other things.

  


 

  


 

  



	5. Ties That Bind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slash fic with a high angst content, now complete. The curious shall read, the others will blithely remain ignorant of even the 'pairing.' Nothing new added, merely posting cleaner copies of the chapters, as I've been meaning to do for awhile now.

  


 

  


_Barren sand and ashes rising hot winds and a dark sky hung with dust. Yellow dust. Gold dust. Star dust perhaps, who could say? A white tower gleamed in the distance ere it faded to naught._ Boromir Boromir _That sing-song voice, still so very familiar!_  Leave me be! _He struggled against the temptation. Hands upon his shoulders, sliding down over his chest to wrap about his waist, turning him about or did the world turn?_ _Faramir's hands, Faramir's scent so very close_  Leave me alone!

  


You will never be rid of me, _his brother murmured, voice echoing softly in the silence. Wind begins to blow again, hot and dry painfully hot like fire._ Faramir, let me go! 

  


You will never be rid of me. For your kind come always to me, my love you come always to me! _And his brother's eyes blazed suddenly with red and cruel brilliance. The Eye!_ Sauron! _Trumpets beneath the earth, and he was falling to pieces_ \--

  


Boromir groaned as he crawled out of bed again, greeting the new day with curses once more for his nightmares. _Why is it that I sleep better in armed camps than in my own bed?_ His dreams were certainly growing more intense with the passing days, and more disturbing at that! But he set his private worries aside, for the trumpets of his nightmares were transmuted now into the clear notes of Gondor's gate-watch. _Who comes now to Minas Tirith?_ Whoever it was, the news was not good, for Boromir recognized the signal calls that chased the new arrivals up the streets of the Tower of the Guard. Hastily, he made himself presentable and darted from his chambers, still buckling his sword-belt. Though it was barely dawn, the halls of the Tower of Ecthelion were alive with the sounds of men rushing about, seeking to discover what had caused the alarm. 

  


"Boromir!" The heir of Denethor whirled at the sound of his brother's voice. Faramir stood in the stairwell, having paused to let someone pass before him, then quickly he emerged from that narrow space and strode to Boromir's side, his eyes dark. "What have you heard?" Boromir asked, sensing that the other knew something of the morning's alert.

  


"Little enough beside the horns, but I saw the rider arrive. He bore the colors of Cair Andros," the younger man said with grim certainty. Boromir closed his eyes a moment, drawing a deep breath.

  


"Osgiliath we know is weak--it always has been. If Cair Andros has fallen."

  


"I think it has not, for I saw no black flag," Faramir replied, shaking his head as he watched Gondor's elite scramble. "But Boromir, that isle is the gateway to Gondor from the Morannon, and it has always been understrength. We cannot lose both outposts at once, but neither can we hold them both. Not after the battle for the bridge."

  


"I know it, and Father must also, but I confess, I know not how he inclines in this matter. Osgiliath may be useless now but it has been a matter of pride for long. Let us hope that this messenger does not bring news of investiture!" Boromir muttered as he began once more to make his way to Denethor's war room. Without bothering to knock, he opened the door and strode in, and was mildly surprised when his brother followed him inside. Apparently, the younger of Denethor's sons had grown weary of being ever shut out. Their father glanced up from his work, face impassive as he took in the pair, seeming to accept Faramir's presence as expected. Already, Húrin of the Keys was there, as was one Lord Mirhal, and their faces were grim. "What news, Father?" Boromir asked without preamble. 

  


"I fear Cair Andros has suffered grievous loss this past night," the steward replied, and if he did not permit anxiety to color his tone, there was a sharp edge to it that cut like a knife and commanded instant attention. "The messenger shall elaborate it for us, but I doubt not that we know already the meat of the matter: we are beset, and we shall soon be faced with an unpalatable range of choices. Faramir," Denethor's voice cracked like a whip, and his younger son stiffened as he stepped forward, meeting his father's eyes reluctantly. Boromir unobtrusively laid a supportive hand on the other's back before he could think the better of such an action. And though his brother appeared admirably composed, he could feel his heart beat, swift and powerful, and a shiver of he knew not what emotion worked its way up his spine.

  


"Yes, my lord?" Faramir asked.

  


"Ithilien works often with Cair Andros. Since you are come, acquaint these gentlemen with your opinion of the situation at the isle," Denethor replied, rising to beckon three more councilors into the chamber. 

  


"As you wish, sir." Faramir stepped away from his brother, though not without darting a quick, grateful, but somewhat puzzled look at him ere he assumed the formal mask that his men knew well, for he wore it ever into battle. Boromir knew it too, but in his mind, that carefully neutral, intent look would be forever associated with these painful sessions with their father. And it was then that he realized that Denethor was watching him rather closely, and Boromir wondered whether the steward had caught the exchange between brothers.

  


"As this council is well aware, Cair Andros, along with the Ithilien company, patrol Anórien and guard the most direct route across the river. For many years, however, that post has been hard pressed to fulfill its duties. We have enough men to hold the fortress on the isle, but not enough to make it an effective outpost without the aid of another company--Ithilien, as fate has had it. During the battle for Osgiliath's bridge, however, the part of the north Ithilien guard that stood with me suffered losses close to sixty percent, and of those companies stationed initially east of the bridge, nearly ninety percent were killed, either in the retreat or when the bridge fell," Faramir stated grimly, pinning each man under a weighty gaze as his words sank in. It was painful to announce that fact, but Denethor's younger son was not accustomed to flinching before the truth, though if the grim, shocked faces were any indication, the steward had not yet spoken to his council of such losses. But when Faramir met his father's eyes, Denethor merely nodded slightly, tacit permission to continue. "Osgiliath's garrison stands now at half-strength, and until my scouts are redistributed to cover the gap in our northern flank, Cair Andros is vulnerable. And with it, so also is Rohan, for we often protect a common border."

  


"Clearly, gentlemen, we are faced with a hard choice," Denethor broke in smoothly, taking control of the meeting. "Cair Andros's utility is limited, but its strategic position is such that we may not abandon it. As the men of Ithilien and the isle work closely in tandem, it would be convenient to strengthen the latter with troops drawn from the former, but the nature of Ithilien's operations demand a higher degree of skill than most other postings. I dare not bolster the one by weakening the other, especially now."

  


"What of Osgiliath's men, then?" Boromir asked. Like his father, he was reluctant to abandon Gondor's ancient capital, for it was his command even were it not a matter of pride. _But Gondor needs more than symbols. And with the fall of the bridge, it is the most concrete thing I can offer._ "Without the bridge, Osgiliath has little importance. Use the remaining garrison to support Cair Andros!" 

  


"I doubt not that it shall come to that, but that does not solve the fundamental problem, gentlemen. We run short of men, while the Dark Lord's armies increase daily. If the disparity in our manpower continues to grow, it shall not need even a long war for attrition to wear away our ability to resist effectively. The transfer of Osgiliath's men is but a delaying tactic. If open war comes not soon, then we shall have no choice but to sacrifice all with the knowledge that it buys nothing, perhaps not even time enough to move some of our population northwest." 

  


"But there is naught that we can do to prevent that disparity from increasing," Húrin pointed out, frowning. "We cannot breed and train a generation in the time given us; we can barely make a start at it!"

  


Ere anyone could say aught in response, though, the door swung open again, and one of the Tower guard approached, shepherding a man in the blue, black and white of Cair Andros. The man was white-faced, exhausted and there was in his eyes a nervousness that Boromir did not like. _What horrors has he seen?_ he asked himself, wondering if the horsemen of Osgiliath might have reappeared in Gondor. _But even they would need more time than that to pass from Rohan to the isle, and surely we would not have overlooked their journey were that so!_ From Faramir's intent look, he guessed that his brother's thoughts ran along similar lines, as the company seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the messenger to speak.

  


"My lords and steward," the Tower guard gestured to the messenger, "here is one Tarvelon, bearing news from Cair Andros." And the man bowed, retreating from the room until he should be needed again. Tarvelon, credit to him, faced the assembled council of Gondor and did not flinch, though he seemed to sigh softly, as though wishing he need not speak his part. 

  


"My lord steward," the messenger said in a low voice, and his eyes flicked quickly over the others. "Councilors. I bring ill news indeed. A strong company of orcs and what we believe is a new breed of troll crossed into Anórien the night of the twenty-seventh. There they found and engaged one of our outrider companies, to our bitter regret! We know not yet the true cost of that encounter, but only three men staggered back to the fortress the next morning. And though they believe some others were scattered and so escaped, the majority of that company is lost, and their horses with them." Murmurs and several dark looks were exchanged, for though Gondor did not rely upon horses as the Riddermark did, still, those that they had were a precious resource, and one of the few measures that made Cair Andros' understrength company worth maintaining. To lose an entire outrider company in one night was a sore blow, and Boromir rubbed at the stubble along his jaw and mouth to cover his frown. 

  


"Does Rohan know?" Faramir's voice rose above the other whispered comments, and all eyes fixed on him once more. "A company that strong usually has more than Gondor as its objective: often, a large force will strike northwest to raid the herds of the Rohirrim, and Ithilien cannot intercept so strong a unit on its way back to the Morannon. Not now. Not without help, that is."

  


"Another messenger was sent west, my lord, but who knows whether he will arrive in time?" _Or at all!_ Boromir thought, hearing the unspoken qualifier. Faramir glanced at him, and the older man offered a minute shrug, acknowledging their helplessness before this turn of events. _One outrider unit. Osgiliath's survivors may fill places in the watch roster, but we have not the horses to put them where they are most needed. And Ithilien, too, needs bodies, and more than that, heads! Where shall we find them?_ The messenger remained some while longer, answering what questions arose, but it was plain to all present that Denethor had already struck the heart of the matter: they had not enough soldiers equipped to take the posts that were most in need and most needed.

  


When Tarvelon had been dismissed, Boromir asked, "Would Rohan agree to help us? They have horses aplenty, and riders trained in their use. Anórien is, as Faramir has said, a common border, commonly threatened, and there is much contact between our peoples there. It would be in their interest to work with us in this case."

  


"Éomer would do it," Faramir replied, glancing at Denethor swiftly ere he continued. "But I would hesitate to put it too bluntly. Already, he walks a dangerously thin line between the letter of the law and outright disobedience, and I would not wish to pressure him into an untenable position. I doubt not that if we give him his head, though, that he will come to us, as he has before." _Yes, doubtless he shall_ , Boromir thought, unwilling to meet his father's eyes, recalling the steward's response to the latest overture from the Third Marshal. He rather expected Denethor to speak firmly with Faramir once the council was dismissed, for so far as Boromir knew, his brother had never openly mentioned such explicit cooperation between Rohan and Gondor. Given the steward's manifest unwillingness to try the precarious friendship that still existed between the two realms, the rebuke would likely become a scathing critique, and Boromir winced in anticipatory sympathy. _And yet we ought to thank them both, for were it not for Faramir and Éomer's illicit cooperation, how many more losses might we have suffered? How many more would Rohan have suffered? How badly would Gondor have failed in its traditional obligations?_ But of late, that sort of battlefield honor had been a secondary consideration in the elaboration of policy, which troubled Boromir more than he liked to admit. _Is it not ironic?_ he thought, considering his brother's willingness to take the initiative even in matters that touched upon treaties. _Faramir seeks ever to earn his birthright, and he would serve Gondor as more than one captain among many if only Father would trust him with other responsibilities. And I, who am my father's heir, would gladly surrender a part of my duties to him if I could. But I cannot, and Father will not see the heart that Faramir has. Between them they tear me apart, quartering me on the ties of our love for each other!_

  


The discussion went on and on, dragging itself over well-worn circles as everyone attempted to find some way out of the rut, only to stumble over the problem of skill and resources once again. _But what else can we do? We approach the chasm, and there is no escaping the plunge,_ Boromir thought, aware of his brother's eyes upon him as the two of them listened silently. There was something about that solemn gaze that unsettled him. That burning regard reminded him too much of his nightmare, and in spite of all his caution, memory of that dream-embrace woke his longing once again. _Remember how it ended!_ he berated himself, fearing that in his troubled frame of mind he might slip and accidentally reveal something of his hidden desire before his brother's piercing regard. _Worse, Father might notice, and then where would I be?_ To which question, the answer came with immediate and unpleasant certainty: _On my knees!_ As unobtrusively as possible, Boromir pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off fatigue and frustration, but to no avail. And as he listened, and tried not to look at Faramir, the thought came suddenly to his mind: _I must escape this place! I must get back to the field, if I can, else I fear I shall be trapped here indeed._ But he had his duty, and that he could not abandon. So he bit his tongue, and bided his time, and hoped that when Osgiliath's men were restationed, that he would be sent with them rather than retained at his father's side. 

  


And still, the discussion went on.

  


***

  


Faramir watched his brother carefully, and in spite of his exhaustion, he did not miss the subtle disaffection that his brother displayed. _Something does eat at him, but what I know not._ It was very unlike Boromir, and that worried him, for in a world of shifting grounds and fading stars, when all hopes seemed to spiral into darkness, he had always felt that he could rely upon his brother's unflagging character. _But of late he, too, has seemed weary. And why not? We have both touched upon darkness, and glad am I that I did not need to give the order to collapse the bridge! Still._ Boromir was gazing back at him now, and his grey eyes grew sharper, more inscrutable, and yet Faramir sensed the other's uneasiness grow. He watched as his brother pinched the bridge of his nose, then passed that hand over his eyes, as if seeking to wipe away some troubling thought. _Mayhap it is only this situation. Hopelessness is a deadly disease, and we have been too long exposed to it. Boromir has perhaps seen the worst of it, for he is in Father's confidance and likely knows more of our peril than he could wish._ Faramir would have done anything he could to help his brother and father, but the latter scorned him and the former was bound to silence over just those matters. 

  
__

Or so I am told! Still, Denethor's younger son puzzled over his brother's impassioned plea the night before last, at once honest and yet hiding something. _Hiding what?_ The more he thought about it, the less convinced he became that he had understood that excuse properly. There was something _personal..._ in it--some private worry that Boromir refused to surrender to another. In fact, as Faramir heard again his brother's voice in his memory, those words felt as odd as the hand upon his back earlier that morning. _Why can I not seem to find a way through to understand this?_ he wondered, and cursed his own molasses-minded fatigue that interfered with his reasoning. Denethor rapped his knuckles sharply on the table before them, and Faramir hastily drew his attention back to the matter at hand, berating himself once more for drifting so far when council was in session. But if the steward had noted his lapse, he gave no sign as he ended the debate, saying, "Rohan must know of our need, but we ought not to expect anything of them at this time. The pinch is not yet come, and short of it, I doubt they will mobilize, unless the Marshals do individually. But we may not deal openly with any of them. Faramir!" _What now?_ Faramir felt his spine stiffen at his father's summons. "If Éomer sends to you, I would know it! And from now on, you will refer him to me, rather than dealing in secret. I do not need you to complicate matters!" 

  


"As you wish, sir," Faramir replied, and bit his tongue against a longer reply. _Send to you indeed! How does that help us? Éomer never sends to us unless it is a matter of immediate and mutual peril. If I wait for your approval, we may lose all. Steadily, Faramir,_ he rebuked himself, trying to rein in his temper. _The steward has all of Gondor to think of, not one province!_ But though he understood the political motivation, he could not help but doubt the steward's judgment in this case. _And of course, I dislike being humiliated in front of my father's council._ But as always, there was naught that he could do to change Denethor's opinion of him, and he made himself accept the reprimand without visible resentment. _I am only one captain, and though my rank as his son places me second only to Boromir, in truth I am still junior to many of the men on this council. Remember that, when your pride hurts! Father may despise you, but that does not make his judgment of your actions wrong._ So he told himself, but believed it not at all in this case.

  


As the session ended, Faramir made his way out, brushing past his brother once more, who, at Denethor's request, was waiting for the room to clear so he could speak with their father. And as he passed, Boromir reached out and caught his shoulder, walking with him a little ways to the door as he murmured, in a voice pitched for his ears only, "You did rightly, whatever Father may say." Just that, and then he was gone again, turning back to Denethor. And though that helped to ease the sting of their father's rebuke, still, that touch did naught to help ravel the complicated knot of his brother's concerns. It had felt hesitant, almost as if Boromir were now reluctant to touch him, though he had done so readily earlier. _There is some ambivalence there that I do not understand._ Faramir sighed softly as he walked the halls alone, passing between little knots of men. Their lowered voices and taut shoulders told him that they discussed the latest bad news, and likely they knew as well as he did that Gondor was one step closer to destruction. As he passed, he felt their eyes on him, but even the out of favor son of a lord may not betray his insecurity. So Faramir left the tower with his head held high and refused to look back, but his heart was troubled. But not so much for Gondor at the moment as for his brother. _Once we never thought to hide aught from each other,_ _but in these past several days, Boromir has become elusive shadowy, almost. Why is that? Is it something I have done, in spite of his assurance otherwise?_ And as frustration, honed keen by exhaustion and disappointment, rose with the soaring summer temperatures, something snapped in him. _I will know his secret,_ he decided. _This has to end, because I cannot deal any longer with this doubt!_

  


***

  


"How may I serve, Father?" Denethor looked up at his son's question, and gave a slight, humorless smile for the wary puzzlement in the other's voice. Clearly, Boromir anticipated more ill news, and was not eager to hear it. 

  


"In many ways yet," he replied. "Whatever his faults, your brother is correct that we must address Rohan's needs, and if possible bind them closely to our own."

  


"They are already bound closely," Boromir protested. "Edoras simply will not see the truth!"

  


"Politics is not always truth, my son, it is often merely perception. We must make Théoden King, or the majority of his captains, perceive that their ties with Gondor are such that they may not stand by while we fight Mordor." Boromir's eyes flickered at that, for he liked not the implication of his father's disjunction. 

  


"Think you that even Éomer and the other marshals would dare to keep Éorl's oath if the king breaks it, Father?" he asked, and carefully did not mention Faramir's own concurrent speculations on that matter.

  


"A much debated question," Denethor replied, prowling about the council table on which lay a map of Gondor and Rohan's borders. And perhaps because his brother was now much on his mind, Boromir, watching him, was struck by how very like Faramir he moved or rather, the reverse. Having a discerning eye where Faramir was concerned, Boromir had noted before how very alike his younger brother and father were. Physically, Faramir took after Denethor's lanky build, and his face had the same narrow, fine-boned structure. In fact, in everything except temperament, Faramir was his father's son, and today's parting shot had only demonstrated the extent of that vital difference. But even that animosity, he realized, came of a common source, and their temperaments differed as the opposite sides of the same coin differed.

  
__

And that troubles me, Boromir thought, recalling the flashes of bitter hurt and anger that his brother occasionally evinced, and more often of late than in all the years since he had left Minas Tirith. _That troubles me deeply!_ For given that basic sameness, what might lurk in the depths of Faramir's soul? _What would it require to make Faramir into our father? To leech him of his compassion and turn him into Denethor? And would I love him still were he to change so?_ It seemed horrible to hope that perhaps he would not; it seemed even worse to think that he might very well continue to love Faramir in any eventuality. But that a part of him actually wished that something would happen to transform his brother into a younger version of their father just so that he _might_ not be troubled by his longings any more? That was obscene. _What is it in me that constantly seeks a way for life to maim him?_ he demanded of himself, disgusted. "I have given thought to it often of late," the steward continued, breaking his son's private reflections. "The Rohirrim are a proud people, but between their king and a wayward lord, I would not put much faith that the bulk of them will follow the lord. Not until it is too late. I cannot blame them for that, but Gondor's protection is my business, and it behooves me to encourage rebellion if it will aid us at the pinch." And seeing Boromir's frown, he snorted. "You do not approve, I see! I ought to have phrased it differently."

  


"Call it what you will, Father, but you speak of an assault upon the king's authority, do you not?"

  


"Say not an assault," Denethor countered. "Say rather that I seek to provide them with a more immediate reason to come to our aid. The Rohirrim are a close-knit folk, and slow to accept an outsider with no ties to them. And though Thengel married Morwen, she was not in the direct line of descent. But if another such marriage were to occur that linked Rohan firmly to us, then there would be many among the mighty of that land who would not accept that Gondor be left to its own defense, let Théoden say what he will against open war." And though such reasoning made perfect sense, Boromir felt a growing sense of dread anticipation rise in him. One that blossomed into full-blown fear as the steward pinned him under his gaze and continued, "Éowyn of Rohan is of an age for marriage, but the king has thus far refused her suitors, claiming them to be of unsuitable lineage. Yet I think he shall bow in the end to a proposal to bring our two realms closer together, and a steward's heir need not fear rejection for lack of a pedigree!"

  


***

  


Despite the heat of the mid-day sun, the practice grounds of Minas Tirith's soldiery were not empty. A solitary figure stood there, sword in hand, and moved with a steady grace and sureness through the drills and forms that any well-trained swordsman knew. But beneath that apparent focus, Boromir's emotions were in turmoil. _Concentrate!_ he admonished himself, correcting for a slight flaw in his routine, feeling unaccountably irritated with that minor error. And then he was irritated with himself for such anger, knowing its source. _I came here to forget Father's words!_ Drills such as these he could perform almost in his sleep, and no one but he would be the wiser for any mistakes of form. But today they did not help to focus his attention as they usually did. It was as if he had spent his focus already that morning, and having managed to accept his father's decision to arrange his marriage to Éowyn with at least outward equanimity, he no longer had it in him to contain his anger and his horror. _Éowyn_ . He tried to remember her, to picture her in his mind, but nothing came to him, really. He supposed she looked like her brother, Éomer, but that did little to help him. Éomer he found attractive enough, but he could not seem to move from brother to sister, and he eventually gave up on the attempt. "She has attended on the king for many years now, since she was quite young. As such, she will certainly have listened to many a debate, and may even recall them. At the very least, she is devoted to her uncle's house and affairs, and that will reassure the Rohirrim," Denethor had said.

  


_I care not for her qualifications,_ Boromir thought. _Indeed, I care not for her! But it is as I said before, Father rules my future. How many other heirs have married for expediency, rather than for love of any sort?_ But others might at least learn to love their wives, the voice of doubt replied. _Does that matter?_ he asked himself, trying to counter that nagging voice. _Many doubtless did not learn to do so, and in the end, it is Gondor that I serve in all things. If this is what is needed, then so be it! Surely I did not think to remain forever a bachelor, given my station?_ Perhaps not in his head, but his heart seemed to have assumed so, flesh and blood being weaker than bodiless, abstracted logic. 

  


"You have gone through the same set of drills for more than an hour now, Boromir, ever since you left Father's presence." The voice from behind him startled him so badly that Boromir whirled, automatically bringing up his sword in a sharp cut, as if to ward off an opponent. _Faramir!_ His brother lounged against the doorframe of the armory, arms folded across his chest. The heat was such that he had his overtunic draped about his shoulders, and the plain white shirt beneath was open at the collar. Boromir wiped sweat from his brow and out of his eyes as he stared at him. Faramir was to all appearances quite nonchalant, but his tired eyes were serious as he gazed across the open yard, and when he spoke, his voice held a certain brittle edge that made Boromir's stomach knot to hear it. "An hour, and I think your form worsens. Clearly you gain no peace, brother. Why not try something else?"

  


"Have you been watching all that time?" At his brother's sharp nod, he asked rather sharply, "Why?"

  


"I have had much on my mind," Faramir replied, which caused Boromir to narrow his eyes as he regarded him. The younger man seemed almost to unfold from his position, tossing the discarded garment onto a low bench and taking up a practice sword that someone had left there. "But why do you ask questions whose answers you know well?"

  


"I know not whereof you speak," Boromir hedged. 

  


"Do you not?" Faramir asked, raising the dulled weapon in a salute as he came to stand across from him. "You seemed composed enough this morning, until Denethor called you aside. Seemed, I say, for there is something that troubles you that _has_ troubled you, and for long, I should say. What could Father have said that brings forth desperation so strongly?"

  


"What makes you think it is anything Father said?" Boromir demanded in automatic defense. That earned him a withering glare, and he flushed, realizing how stupid that must sound. _It is always Father, is it not? Or Faramir himself!_ "It is nothing, Faramir. Believe me!"

  


"I would that I could," the other replied, settling into a high guard stance. "But I fear that your behavior counts against you, brother." A slight, sad smile that was nonetheless edged with a certain anger twisted his brother's mouth, as he said, "You were ever a poor liar!" A pause, then, and seeing that Boromir did not move, "Come now, drills have done naught to clear your mind, and why should they? You need a target that stands clearly before you. And so do I!" With that, Faramir struck, moving into a quick series of testing feints that Boromir countered easily. _What has gotten into him?_ the older man wondered, and feared that he knew the answer. Still, it was not in him to surrender so easily. 

  


"If you think to clear my mind with a challenge, then you shall have to try harder than that! I am in no mood for play, Faramir," he replied, and struck back, throwing himself into the fight. Faramir met him head on, which Boromir found rather unusual, for his brother's style tended to be more subtle, at least in the beginning. _But then again, I would not have thought he would approach me thus, either! Valar help me, what does he know? What does he suspect?_ His brother caught his blade on his own, then pushed off of it into a quick spin that added momentum to the low swing that Boromir had to jump over. Faramir ducked beneath the follow-up, and ere he tucked into a roll, his left leg shot out. He caught Boromir's ankle, and the older man cursed as he stumbled and nearly did fall. 

  


"Then let us not seek mere diversion here," Faramir panted as he came quickly to his feet. The two of them stood there, breathing hard, and the sun's light dazzled their eyes, but not enough to deter them. Faramir attacked again, putting together a long combination that Boromir managed to deflect, though his brother's sword once whistled so close to his head that he felt the blade rustle his hair. As Faramir brought his weapon down and across his body on the back stroke, Boromir angled his sword and caught the blade against the crossguard. Striving against each other, seeking that extra bit of purchase that would break the lock, they stared at each other over crossed blades, and Faramir asked, "Tell me, since you would be in earnest, what troubles you? Something lies between us, and I would know what it is!"

  


"Nothing lies between us," Boromir grated, lying through his teeth as he thrust hard, backing his brother down ere he followed through with a hard, overhand cut. Faramir side-stepped it, then had to parry quickly as Boromir shifted his grip and swung back to his left. Steel rang again, and Faramir turned on his toes, gracefully brushing the other's sword aside. 

  


"Another clumsy lie, brother mine! I see the way that you look at me! And there is that in your touch that makes me doubt you!" Faramir's eyes flashed bright silver, and for a moment, Boromir's defense faltered badly. Indeed, he had no defense, for against the sick shock that ran through him, he could not seem to muster any resistance. _Valar save me, he knows! He must! And what shall I say? What could I possibly say that would excuse me? Naught!_ Faramir, however, suffered from no such shock, and he took advantage of his brother's moment of immobility to cut hard to the inside and then come back at him with a short combination that almost drew blood. As it was, in his distraction, Boromir found himself staring down the length of his brother's sword, his own weapon out of position to one side. "What say you, Boromir?" Faramir asked. And seeing his brother's expression, he realized, with a terrible, sinking sensation, that there could be no avoiding the conversation that he had sought for so many years to avoid. 

  


"What _should_ I say?" he asked in a low, harsh voice. 

  


"Whatever is true, I should hope! Since Osgiliath, you have not been yourself. And I did not blame you at first, for who among us who saw the horror of that shadow can say truly that he is himself today? But this has gone too long in silence and guilt, Boromir. Speak!"

  


"I cannot!"

  


"Find a way," Faramir replied evenly, without wavering or standing down. _And if I refuse, Brother, will you end my misery and stab me with that sword? It may be blunted for practice, but in your hands it can still bite deep enough to kill. And perhaps that would not be so terrible a thing!_ If Denethor succeeded in his plans, he would need Faramir as never before, even though it was largely because of his brother that he could not stomach the idea of marriage. But if after this they could share naught but anger and disgust, then there was a part of him that wondered why all of it ought not to end now. He stared mutely at the Faramir, unable to speak, and something akin to despair stirred in him and then just as quickly it twisted, transmuting into a rare spite for all the long years of struggle and denial of his own nature--for the _decades_ during which his brother had played the innocent tormentor, merciless in his guilelessness. And it was suddenly more than Boromir could bear! Faramir, for his part, perceived the shift in his brother's mood, and caught his breath. Uncertainty and a touch of bewilderment flickered in his eyes, and in that moment, Boromir struck. Faramir staggered back, hastily flinging up his guard again as his older brother attacked. 

  


"You wish to know what troubles me?" Boromir demanded between ragged breaths as he pressed his advantage with all the fervor he normally reserved for the battlefield. _For what is this if not a war? See what comes of a too-curious mind, brother!_ "You truly wish to know? Then listen well!" Faramir ducked under a strike and rolled to clear the range of a backhanded swipe ere he managed to regain his feet. He was retreating now, seeming at once startled by Boromir's ferocity, but also determined to see this through. "I have done all that Father has asked of me since I was old enough to decide such things. I have never disobeyed him, I have always bowed to his wishes, and I have tried to serve Gondor to the best of my ability, Faramir. Valar know that I have tried! I would give my life, but that I can sacrifice but once! And while I live, all that I am shall never be enough, for even were Sauron to cease in this very instant, Father would find still more for me to be and do. There are things that I do that I hate myself for having done! That I hate myself for accepting! But I cannot refuse them either--I cannot refuse our father's will!"

  


"And what--" Faramir's question was interrupted as the younger man parried and then dodged the back-thrust that followed "--what is Father's will now, Boromir, that it has touched you so close?" Faramir demanded, voice harsh with the strain of defending himself against the fury of his brother's onslaught. And as he asked, he glanced back, for he realized that he was running swiftly out of space to maneuver. Cutting hard to the left, he tried to turn them both, but his brother was too canny a swordsman. Not that Faramir was incompetent--he was a match for any man save perhaps his brother and possibly a younger Denethor--but his own weary, grieving frustration was little indeed to oppose the powerful emotion that fueled Boromir's strokes. With a curse, Boromir drove him back still further, 'til the wall of the armory was but a few feet distant.

  


"He would have me marry Éowyn of Rohan!" Boromir snarled, and as he caught Faramir's sword on his own, he thrust back with such force that his brother grunted in anguish as he hit the wall and all the air was driven out of his lungs. But Faramir, too, had seen too many battles, and he did not collapse. Fighting breathlessness and the tingling numbness that radiated out from his abused spinal column, the younger man stared at Boromir with darkened eyes, feeling his brother's body close as the two of them leaned hard against their locked weapons, seeking to hold each other in place. "Is that not enough?" 

  


"Enough? Is what enough? Is _this_ your ill news?" he managed, utterly confused by this unexpected turn. For of all the revelations that Boromir might have made, this seemed the most harmless. For a moment, his brother simply stared at him, as if he could not comprehend Faramir's question. Then a look akin to denial flashed across his face, and Boromir hung his head, lowering his sword as his shoulders shook with some odd emotion. _Does he laugh or cry?_ Faramir wondered, half-collapsing against the wall now that he had no reason to stand straight, and he knew not what to hope. He had come here hoping to drive whatever it was that troubled his brother into the open, but it seemed he had walked into a mire. _What have I stirred in him, and why?_

  


Boromir, for his part, wanted to be sick, but amazement still held the upper hand over revulsion. _He does not know! Or does he? I was so certain that he did, and now ._ Now, the world seemed to spin dizzily about him, and he fancied he could hear the mocking laughter of some evil demon. But he squeezed his eyes shut against such illusions, and willed the ground to steady itself. _What is in his heart and mind now? Does he see it now?_ Boromir could feel the other's gaze upon him, and he feared to face it, knowing the power of those gorgeous eyes and the mind that lay behind them. _But surely he knows surely !_ And if he did, then what point was there in hiding? _Valar help me, he is so close so very close I can almost feel him against me!_ Boromir bit his lip hard, amazed to discover that even now, when everything hung on the edge of a knife, that he could still want his brother so badly. And for all the times that he had hugged Faramir, or held him close, or tussled with him in their periodic fits of playfulness, it seemed that he had never felt his presence so strongly as now, when their bodies hovered on the edge of contact without ever touching. Perhaps it was the knowledge that he had crossed the line that lent to the eroticism of the moment: for although uncertainty tore at him, his decision was made at last.

  


Faramir frowned, watching as Boromir slowly raised his head once more and locked eyes with him. A very odd fire seemed to burn there as his brother cocked his head slightly, staring at Faramir as if to pierce through to his very soul. The younger man's brow furrowed as he struggled with the sensation that he looked the answer to all his questions in the face and yet could not--quite--fathom it. It was as the feeling of losing a word when one needed it, and one felt it skitter about one's mouth without ever being able to pronounce it. _What what do I see?_ Boromir saw his puzzlement, his painful incomprehension, and some of the light died in his eyes, as a sound almost like a soft sob escaped him; and for a moment, Faramir's confusion was mirrored in his brother's face. Boromir lifted his left hand and ever so gently brushed a strand of sweat-soaked dark hair from Faramir's eyes. Then he paused a bare second ere he let that hand stray down the side of Faramir's face to cradle his cheek. His thumb trailed down over Faramir's lips, as if pressing them closed to contain a secret. The puzzlement in Faramir's eyes waxed greater, and he blinked as Boromir pressed his forehead against his brow and shook his head minutely, as if in exhausted disbelief. 

  


"My poor Faramir, can you truly be such an innocent?" Boromir asked, the whispered question breathed out into the gap between their lips. And when Faramir said naught, only struggled with the glimmer of understanding that had begun to break its way through his muddled confusion, Boromir continued softly, "As always, so unwitting, and yet so very near the mark. Were it any other, I would not believe that he could aim so straight, and yet know not his quarry!"

  


"Boromir?" Faramir could hardly speak, overwhelmed by the import of that confession. His brother felt so very close--he could feel the heat trapped between their bodies--and Boromir's breath gusted raggedly. The hand on his face dropped now to his shoulder, then to his chest, and he could feel his own heartbeat race against the pressure of the other's palm. _Varda above me, what do I say? What do I do? I know he loves me I know that but I never thought!_ For the first time in his life, he felt his brother's touch as alien, unwanted, and he shivered. _Surely not!_ But when Boromir backed slightly, just enough so that they could look each other once more in the eyes, there was no denying the truth. 

  


For his part, Boromir no longer wished to deny it, for having been brought to the point of admission by mutual misunderstanding, the only scrap of dignity he had left lay in his willingness to own that confession. But he could say nothing, only wait and watch the horror and incredulity work through his brother. _And grieve, for Faramir shall never trust me again after this. I cannot even blame him, for the shame is mine!_ That was why, rather than let his brother walk away from _him_ , Boromir withdrew a pace, tossing the practice sword at the other's feet. Faramir's eyes darted to the weapon, then back to his brother's face with wary confusion, and Boromir spread his hands slightly and bowed, a warrior accepting his defeat. It was his shame, his own displaced, misdirected, helpless-- _hopeless!_ \--desire that had led them to this point, and an odd sort of pride woke from the ashes of Boromir's self-esteem. A moment longer he gazed at his brother, committing to memory the scene. Then he turned on his heel and walked quickly away, and tried to pretend that his heart did not break.

  


  


 

  


 

  



	6. Regret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slash fic with a high angst content, now complete. The curious shall read, the others will blithely remain ignorant of even the 'pairing.' Nothing new added, merely posting cleaner copies of the chapters, as I've been meaning to do for awhile now.

 

  


_Another evening and another moonrise!_ Boromir gazed out of the window of the furthest chamber of his suite and felt each second slither away like thick wax down a candle's corrugated side. There was that painful pause, when it seemed as though the moment would never pass, and then suddenly it slipped away, vanishing like smoke, and leaving a man wishing for just a little more permanence in time's shifting stream. Boromir bowed his head, wishing bitterly that he could retrieve lost time, that lost innocence could be returned him. _Innocence not mine, but Faramir's!_ He had once thought that nothing could be more painful than his brother's ignorance, but he knew better now. _I suppose I always have, or I would not have struggled to keep my secret for so long. To be betrayed--to betray myself!--out of a misinterpretation . But he seemed to know!_ And so the circle of anger and hurt, denial and regret turned round. When he had left Faramir the day before, he had made it all the way back to his quarters before he threw up. He had retched 'til his stomach cramped and he had nothing left to vomit, but that had not rid him of the nausea, for it seemed to pervade his very blood, coursing through him like poison. He had huddled on the floor by the garderobe for hours, it had seemed, and his mind had been an utter blank except for the memory of the hurt and disgust and fear in his brother's shocked expression. In many ways, what he had felt was not unlike the shock he had experienced after his first battle, and he supposed that that was not so very surprising. He had suffered wrenching loss both times, and been made to look upon the destruction he had wrought. _But if it hurts to see a stranger and an enemy reduced to so much flesh and spilt blood, how much more does it hurt to have wounded the one I love best?_

  


With a sigh, he tore his eyes from the half moon and lowered his gaze once more to the book in his lap. For he sat now in a corner of his bedroom, foregoing the use of a chair or the bed itself, feeling displaced and ill at ease even here, where few came. It was a defensive posture and position, but he could do little to defend against himself. Indeed, he knew not why he continued to search through the volumes of half-legible writing that Faramir had lent him in aid of his search for Imladris. _Except that I must do something, and I might as well continue this, for I have no mind for conversation of any sort!_ he thought, skimming through another page without success. Given his own dislike of such research, he had not even the faint hope of discovering the location of elusive Rivendell, but even had he been so arrogant as to think he might stumble across the information it would be a poor victory. Nevertheless, he felt compelled to search further. _It comes down to duty once more, though he to whom I owe it would have no more of me,_ he thought. _I am so far beyond atonement that I can barely fathom the notion. Forgiveness? What is that, when the offense is so grave?_

  


From the time that the brothers had parted, Boromir had scarcely seen hide or hair of Faramir, and he began to feel painfully what Faramir must have felt when he had been driven to confront him outside of Denethor's council chambers. Faramir, whose tact and self-possession were usually such as to make him a very discreet presence, was now conspicuous by his very absence. Clearly, he avoided Boromir, and for one who had spent the better part of twenty years away from Minas Tirith, he had proved himself quite adept at disappearing into it. Only once this morning had his path crossed his older brother's, there in the halls that led to the western side of the Seventh Circle. Neither had spoken, and though Boromir had stared, unable to help himself, seeking even the smallest measure of acceptance in the other, Faramir had flicked but the barest glance at him ere he had turned away. In that brief regard there had been nothing fraternal, unless it were the boundless capacity for brothers to hurt each other. Shaken, but not truly surprised, Boromir had spent an awful morning at his father's side: his concentration in tatters, he predictably performed poorly. And though the steward had snapped at him once or twice, even his father's wrath could not pierce his grief sufficiently to command undivided attention. 

  


The worst of it all was that Boromir knew that he had no one to blame but himself. _At least I did not kiss him!_ he thought, and was disgusted that that was the most positive thing that he could draw out of that disastrous confrontation. Not that he had not been tempted, but he had not even dared to think of his brother's probable reaction to such a violation. Which was likely why one part of him--the part that, in spite of everything, still ached with desire--cried, _Coward!_ And to that, reason and decency snapped back, _Beast! Have I no shame at all? Why must I persist in wanting? Or is it a perverse sort of punishment, that even so painful a loss cannot purge me of this this flaw? If Father does succeed in this match, I should weep for Éowyn, for I doubt not that I shall be a poor husband to her!_ He knew not whether Denethor had even made the proposal yet, and he wondered if he cared. After losing Faramir so irretrievably, all else seemed to fade in importance. _Let her come! Let her hate me if she will, what is that to me? A touch more misery, perhaps, but naught by comparison_ , he thought. For how, indeed, could a woman he knew not at all inflict half the pain that came of the breaking of a bond forged over decades? A bond so very integral to his existence that he could not remember a time when he had not loved Faramir. 

  


_And where is Faramir now? What might he do at this hour?_ One might expect him to be asleep after such an ordeal, particularly one that followed upon a week of little or no rest, but Boromir doubted that his brother's dreams, prophetic or otherwise, would allow him that relief. Likely, Faramir had gone whither he always had when in need of space and free air. Likely, he was even now upon that particular tower, where as a boy on the cusp of manhood he had hidden when he could no longer bear their father's harsh and unrelenting criticism. Once, Boromir had been the one to comfort him, to give his brother a reason to return to the earth and leave his troubles on high. But he had forfeited that right-- _nay, that privilege!_ \--and for all that he wished he dared to follow his brother up onto that turret, he could not. _And so he will have to find his own way back down_ , he thought sadly. _He will, I am certain of it, but is it wrong to wish that in doing so he might reconcile himself to me?_ Boromir sighed and tilted his head back, hissing softly as he fought with himself. Doubtless it was wrong, for he deserved nothing if not his brother's contempt, and yet that did not stop him from wishing. 

  


_I must leave this place! I know not how, but I have no choice. Minas Tirith shall forever be my home, but one tainted by shadow, stained by grief and shame. Somehow I shall find a way out from behind its walls, and soon!_ Closing his eyes, he sighed softly. He would be forty with the coming of winter, and given the longevity of his line, he could be considered as verging on full maturity, on the prime of his life. _And here sit I, feeling as though I were all of nineteen again: uncertain, racked with fear and guilt, despising myself for what I am!_ Not that he had ever completely left those feelings behind, but mostly they were muted; he had learned to live with himself, to be comfortable enough in his body in spite of his sexuality. Except in one damning case! _Varda's skies, I am tired! So very tired of it all!_ His head nodded now against his chest, and though he willed to stay awake, to read further, the exhausting emotions of the past two days could not but exact their vengeance upon him. Back braced by the corner and hands laid limply upon the open pages of the book, Boromir fell asleep and cared not what dreams might come.

  


***

  


It might have afforded Boromir some small satisfaction to know that his guess was correct, for upon the western tower of Minas Tirith's inner circle, Faramir sat in his customary place, tucked into a crenel that frankly had been more accommodating before he had reached his adult height. But in spite of the cramped quarters, he would sit nowhere else, and at least he could balance his book against his knees. Atop the merlon behind him burned a small lantern that shed warm yellow light, challenging the bright moon above. But Faramir did not read, for he had tried all that day to do so without having managed even thirty pages. Even the prospect of poetry did not entice him: words were too complicated, too abstract, requiring a concentration he simply did not have. And so, rather than continue with the futile exercise, he had instead brought with him a somewhat battered sheaf of bound paper that had followed him from Minas Tirith to Ithilien. Not that he had much time for sketching in Ithilien, but perhaps once or twice in a four month period, he would manage an hour or two to himself. The book was a gift, something that his mother had bestowed shortly before her death, and as it had brought her comfort in her loneliness, so it helped him to achieve a measure of peace. There was a definite satisfaction that came of watching something take shape under one's own hands, particularly when so often those same hands wrought death. And usually, the act of drawing was utterly absorbing, enabling him to forget for a time his fears. 

  


But tonight, his mind and hands worked against him, for without quite intending to, he had simply begun to sketch, to the best of his ability to remember, his brother. With a grimace, Faramir cocked his head, trying to decide whether he had put that last line at the right angle, and his fingers traced the mark carefully. _Like Boromir's fingers yesterday!_ The comparison leapt to his mind, and with it the ghost of that caress seemed to burn down his jaw-line. Faramir hissed, jerking his hand back involuntarily. And just as quickly, he shook his head, annoyed with himself for having put the two together. _'Tis a drawing! And if I like it not, then why do I continue it?_ In truth, he knew not whence came his inspiration, for if he could have but one moment to relive, he would have chosen the moment he had decided to speak to his brother on the practice grounds. _I should have held my tongue! I should have walked away and left him alone. He never asked for my help! He never asked for aught, and I what must I have seemed to him?_

  


Never in his life had he thought to feel so badly conflicted--he, who had thought he had learned the measure of troubled love through his father's contempt. On the one hand, he was horrified by the passion smoldering in his brother's eyes, and felt himself repulsed by the very idea. Even had Boromir not been his brother, Faramir felt naught but disgust for the thought of loving another man thus. And yet, as he reviewed all the days of their lives together, he could not hold himself blameless. _How could I have been so naïve? There is so much that I missed, that I took for granted! Unimportant things, little things that defined the channel and course of our love. A kiss, a laugh, a touch expressions of a love that I thought natural enough, simply the affection that grows out of a lifetime of companionship._ So many words and deeds, harmless enough in themselves but seen now through hindsight, they became damning instances of temptation. Unwitting temptation, perhaps, but Faramir was too honest to deny that his own behavior had likely fueled Boromir's lust almost unbearably. _I understand now why he sought to place a wall between us after Osgiliath. And I, like a fool, would not let him! His fall is in part my fault!_ He would have begged his brother's pardon for that, but he simply could not face him. The pain, the sense of betrayal, of having been _used_ , was too great.

  


Still, he had almost weakened that morning when he had passed Boromir in the hall. His brother's face had frozen, and those grey eyes had been pleading, filled with a world of regret and anguish. _And love!_ Faramir had felt his blood congeal, and he knew that his own eyes had gone absolutely blank as his mind had sought to ignore, to simply _not see_ , what had lain before them. His legs had held their course without faltering, and before he could even have considered another response, he had brushed past his brother and gone on his way. Since then he had managed to avoid the other. _For all the good that that does me! His face and feel haunt me so that I might as well stand before him,_ Faramir thought with a soft sigh. _And I ought to do so before ever we risk appearing jointly before Father, for whatever my brother's fault, I would not see him exposed to Denethor's wrath. But how shall we conceal this? Is it even possible?_ At the moment, the court of Gondor was embroiled in matters political, in the problem of Rohan and the news out of Osgiliath and Cair Andros. But for the distraction provided by war and intrigue, someone would surely have remarked the sudden change in the brothers' relationship with each other. _I never thought to be grateful for ill tidings, but I confess that I am. So long as all eyes are drawn towards Rohan and towards Mordor, none shall remark the trouble at home._

  


If he thought about it too much (which of course he did), he could grow angry beyond words for the very fact that he had now to look askance at his brother. _Why did he say aught? I never suspected him, truly! Could he not have kept silent? And now I must wonder, is it only to me that he turns? Or have there been others... and if so, how many?_ Faramir did not want to contemplate such things, but he could not help himself. He was too familiar with an army's routines to think that even a commander could not steal a few hours with a lover at need. _Or even at will!_ Thus far, he had never had to discipline anyone for "inappropriate conduct with another man," as the formal phrase went, but that did not mean that he never would. _And now I am complicit in that crime. Were I at all concerned with justice, I would denounce my brother, but I shall not! How could I? And how could I think that way about Boromir? He is not that shameless a man, or that cruel! I hope._ Faramir groaned softly and closed his eyes. In his heart, he still trusted that his brother was fundamentally an honorable man, but that one glaring fault cast the pall of doubt upon all such certainties. Indeed, Faramir felt himself torn in two, caught between wanting to believe that Boromir would never have acted on his desire, and inbred suspicion of someone who could lie so well and for so long.

  


A poor liar I called him! The irony was sickening, and Faramir opened his eyes again, shivering as he recalled all over again the feeling of warmth along the length of his body as Boromir had leaned close to whisper his confession. Almost without realizing what he did, Faramir raised his hand to touch his face where Boromir's hand had lain. He had not managed his brother's oddly graceful retreat yesterday, and as soon as Boromir had disappeared, he had sunk to the ground, shaking. When at last he had managed to find the strength to rise again, he had gone swiftly to his own quarters, stripped out of his clothes and washed thoroughly, feeling absolutely filthy. But water could not wash away guilt, or the feeling of spiritual contamination, and though he had washed again this morning, he still felt dirty. Dirty--because Boromir loved him as he should not; because Faramir had misled his brother, however unintentionally; and because in the end, beneath the anger and hurt, he still loved Boromir and could not bring himself to tell him so. 

  
__

Stop thinking of him! he ordered himself, closing the sketchbook with sudden resolve and wiping the charcoal off of his hands on a rag. But he could not, and his gaze drifted south to the tower of Ecthelion. White and tall it stood, shimmering in the moonlight, and a greenish light flickered in the highest window. Faramir frowned, wondering at that, but only briefly ere his eyes darted to the windows that he knew were his brother's. _Does he sleep, I wonder? Or does he wear the night away as I do?_ For a long while, he simply stared and thoughts came and went, drifting on the tide of heedless speculation. 

  
__

Seek for the Sword that was Broken/In Imladris it dwells! 

  


With a hiss of pain, Faramir clutched at his temples, gritting his teeth as the vision took him again, exploding into his mind like a dwarven mine-stick. _Will this never end?_ Faramir doubled over, panting, feeling cold sweat soak him in a heartbeat. _If we must find Imladris, could we not at least be told where it lies? I would go if I knew!_ He knew not to whom he addressed such complaints, but as the vision spun itself out and faded away once more, Faramir winced as he probed his lower lip and tasted blood. _I know not how much longer I can withstand this,_ he realized. Between Boromir's disturbing revelation, Denethor's continued cold treatment of him, and this merciless dream that plagued him, he was fast approaching the limits of his endurance. _I cannot change Denethor's heart, and I doubt me that I could change Boromir's; that leaves the dream, and that I must answer, if I can, for the sake of my sanity!_ And so, though it seemed every muscle protested, he rose and gathered up his belongings and began the long descent. There were books stacked high on every surface of his room, and one of them had to hold the answer. If he worked through the night, perhaps he might find it!

  


***

  


Boromir woke suddenly, a cry upon his lips as the dream faded. _White tower dark mountains Seek for the Sword that was Broken._ The words echoed in his mind with such force that he did not doubt what he had dreamt. But why? The line of the stewards still pulsed strongly with the blood of Númenor, and it was given to many over the long years to dream true. In his generation, such gifts seemed to have passed from Denethor to Faramir alone, and Boromir had never envied his brother his foresight. But it seemed his immunity had just been shattered, and the steward's heir shook his head sharply as he rose, setting aside the book in his lap. _Am I certain that I dreamt it truly?_ he wondered, irritably brushing hair out of his eyes. _I have heard that rhyme so often now, searched so many records for mention of Imladris or Isildur or Halflings that perhaps it is but a confusion of waking memory and dream._ But such excuses rang hollow, for they could not explain the terrible urgency that he felt now. Indeed, he wondered how Faramir had borne the strain of that unfulfilled command for so long. _Imladris! Curse it all, what is it that calls us there? And where is it? Confound it all, where?!_ The skies made no reply to his mute appeal, and Boromir sighed softly. 

  


"We can do little more than we have done already," he murmured, thinking aloud. "If Faramir has not succeeded, there is little chance that I will! But we cannot let this lie." A glimmer of inspiration struck suddenly, and he wondered that he had not thought of it before. _Likely because it was Faramir's quest, and habits of thought are difficult to escape._ Faramir had confided in _him_ , had asked _his_ help, and because of that, Boromir had kept the matter between them, never thinking to look further. _But if we wish to succeed, then I think we must._ Distasteful as the prospect might be to his brother, Denethor might know enough to help them. His brother's intellect was no less precocious and subtle than their father's, but the steward had had many more years to explore the vaults of the library. _If anyone knows, he would! But how shall I broach this with Faramir?_

  


That gave him pause, for even had nothing passed between them the day before, he would have been hard pressed to find a way to convince his brother to go their father with this matter. Faramir had invested too much sweat and frustration in the effort to unravel the rhyme to surrender it to another's keeping, and Boromir knew well that once their father knew of his brother's search, it would all be out of their hands. Denethor, in his inimitable fashion, would brush them both aside and take the task upon himself, and that would deal a blow to Faramir's sense of worth. Boromir had seen that happen too often before, and he was not eager to see it again. But if Denethor did know something if it were possible that he might help, then Boromir must make Faramir see the necessity of going to the steward. Though in point of fact, and all things being equal, he would usually have done little convincing; rather, he would simply have approached the other with the idea and appealed to Faramir's sense of duty. _And failing that, to his trust in me!_ But Faramir had been searching for a week, and was running himself ragged in pursuit of duty, and after the fight. _He will not hear me, for that trust is broken._ Boromir clenched his teeth against bitter self-hatred and tried to focus. _No use! If this is truly as important as my heart now tells me, then I may not balk at the asking._

  


Nevertheless, though he was certain that Faramir slept not, he remained where he was, thinking. And it seemed to him that he could almost feel his brother's restless energy, and knew that all was not well with him. _If I go to him now, he may refuse to listen to me at all, and why not? And I know not what I shall do when I see him!_ Boromir bowed his head, tormented by that truth. If Faramir slammed the door in his face, he knew not what he would do; but if he seemed to admit him, to listen, if only reluctantly, then would he, Boromir, be able to focus solely on the task at hand? Or would he weaken to the point of begging forgiveness? _That must not happen, for then I doubt not that Faramir shall think I came only for that reason, and will not hear me on other matters of more import. Valar curse it, what a twisted path I walk!_ Leaning now upon the window sill, Boromir swore viciously, futilely wishing that he could trust himself to have strength enough to forebear such pleading. But he knew he had it not; and so, as the moon rose to its zenith and began its descent, as the sky grew paler and the sun began to blaze over the dark and dreary peaks of the Ephel Dúath, Boromir remained where he was, and cursed for the hurt he was about to do his brother once more. 

  


 

  


 

  


 

  


 

  



	7. Torn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slash fic with a high angst content, now complete. The curious shall read, the others will blithely remain ignorant of even the 'pairing.' Nothing new added, merely posting cleaner copies of the chapters, as I've been meaning to do for awhile now.

 

  


Boromir stood before his father's chambers and sternly reminded himself that he was no longer a childthat he had a right and a reason to speak to his father in private, where he could be certain no others would overhear and that he had no choice, and so should banish Faramir's haunting image from his mind. _I have known for many hours now what I must do._ _And still I hesitate!_ He grimaced, wrinkling his nose slightly as he raised his hand and rapped twice, sharply. After some few moments, the door opened and a young face looked out. Denethor's esquire looked as if he would far rather be asleep himself, but the Steward of Gondor kept long hours and one did not complain of such incidental things as lost sleep. Still, it was unusual for anyone to come seeking Denethor before the sun had fully risen, and the lad gave a slight frown as he beckoned Boromir within. "A moment, my lord, and I shall return." The esquire went swiftly to the south wall and passed through the door there into his father's inner rooms. 

  


Boromir meanwhile stood and tried not to shift from foot to foot as his eyes wandered over the meticulously kept quarters. This was ostensibly the antechamber where Denethor could receive visitors or entertain a guest of some special significance, but one might not know that from the décor. The chamber did have a small table and some extra chairs, but this was clearly another place of work, like the study below. More intimate, perhaps, for the room gave evidence of Denethor's tastes, but as in all things, the steward was discreet. Maps and books lined every wall, and the furniture was elegant in its simplicity and functionality. The oversized desk along the wall before the window held many reams of paper and a book lay open upon it. Two unlit candles sat upon either corner of the desk and the large pool of wax at their bases testified to their frequent and prolonged use. The carpet that covered the flagstones was a deep blue that was almost black, relieved only by a border of white tracery that seemed almost as lettering. In one corner there stood a clock, and in another a chest whose contents remained a mystery even to Boromir. All was kept in perfect order, and Boromir found himself uneasy, feeling as though he upset the symmetry of the room with his presence. _Stop imagining things!_ he berated himself, which of course only made the feeling grow stronger.

  


Just then, the door opened again, but instead of the esquire, Denethor himself emerged. "Good morning, Father," Boromir said, straightening automatically. _Let it begin!_

  


"You come early today," Denethor said by way of reply. The steward wore a black, silk over-robe, tied at the waist, as if he had risen not long ago. But despite that, sleep seemed far from him, and the very atmosphere of the room seemed to grow tense with his father's arrival. _Like the air before a lightning strike,_ Boromir thought. Denethor stalked to the table before the hearth where sat a cup and a kettle and poured himself tea. The steward quirked a brow in his son's direction in silent question, and Boromir shook his head. 

  


"No, thank you," he murmured, watching as Denethor set the kettle down once more and then turned to him, eyeing him closely. 

  


"What brings you to me before the accustomed hour?" he asked, cutting straight to the heart of the matter, for even among those closest to him, the steward was not one for idle pleasantries.

  


_If only you knew!_ Boromir thought, though he was careful to conceal the emotions that surged up within him. Still, he could not hide the worry that he felt, and did not try, for he had reason enough for it that his father ought to see naught in it but the obvious. Drawing a deep breath, he ground under a mental heel the bite of conscience, and answered, "A dream, Father. One that seems to me to have some significance." 

  


"Ah?" Denethor raised both brows now, gazing at him over the rim of the teacup as he drank. And if there was a touch of surprise in the sharp interest his father exhibited, Boromir could hardly blame him for it. The last time he had come to his father over a dream, he had been eight years old and his mother had been too ill to comfort him. "Say on, then!"

  


"I it is not my wont, Father, to heed overmuch dreams, for I have not your gift," Boromir began. _Nor Faramir's, thankfully!_ "But this one I cannot ignore. Know you aught, sir, of Imladris?"

  


"Imladris yes, I have heard the name," Denethor replied. "You dreamt of it?"

  


"Not of it, but it stands in the staves spoken in this dream," Boromir said, watching his father closely. "What is it, sir? Or where is it?"

  


"I cannot say," the steward replied, taking another swallow of tea ere he set the cup aside. "'Tis the name of a valley in the north. A hidden refuge of the Elves it once was, and perhaps it is still. Gondor has never had dealings with it, and I know naught of its location, save that it lies in the Misty Mountains." _The Misty Mountains_ , Boromir thought. _No wonder we have found nothing!_ But Denethor continued now, "Tell me of this rhyme, Boromir, and perhaps we shall learn more." Boromir bit his lip, suddenly reluctant to speak, though he knew not why. Obscurely, now that he had come to the heart of it, the feeling that he was betraying Faramir once more grew stronger, and he glanced away from the steward's sharp gaze. But as he did so, his eyes fell upon the sheaf of paper and inkwell that Denethor kept ever upon the desk, and he crossed to it. Without asking permission, he grasped the pen and quickly wrote down the lines. When he had finished, he blew on the ink to encourage it to dry more swiftly ere he turned back to his father. Extending the paper to the other, Boromir could not help but hold his breath as Denethor reached out and took it, holding it at somewhat less than arm's length. "Far-sighted" men called him, referring to his piercing intellect and wisdom, but as the years drew on, it had begun to be true of his eyesight as well. Boromir watched as his father's eyes flicked over the lines, narrowing slightly as he read. When he had done, he lowered the paper and stared at Boromir with that uncomfortably intense scrutiny that drove many men to distraction as they sought to find a way out from beneath its weight. But Boromir simply gazed back, and even guilt could not master the urgent, nearly desperate hope that filled his heart. "Strange portents, my son!"

  


"I can make nothing of them, I fear," Boromir replied. Denethor grunted softly and meticulously folded the paper, creasing it as he crossed the room to set it upon his desk. 

  


"Old signs and old legends drawn out of the dark days of the last Age," his father said grimly. "The loremasters despair of finding answers to some questions, and the matter of Isildur has long puzzled them. Out of Arnor, there came few rumors, but I doubt not that had the vaults of Fornost or Annuminas survived, we might have found much there to explain these staves. Alas, they are lost to us!" A pause. "What has Faramir discovered?"

  


"Father?"

  


"I hope you do not think that I have overlooked the number of books and scrolls that the two of you have between you examined," Denethor replied, his voice hardening somewhat. "Your brother knows of this. This dream tears at him, wearing him down, I can see it. But he would not come to me, and you have thus far remained silent. What has caused that to change?"

  


Swallowing an expletive, Boromir glanced down at the floor. _I ought to have known better than to think that our activities could go all unnoticed!_ he thought. "Faramir has found naught of use, sir. And until last night, I did but help him in a quest I could not understand, for I am not one to deal with the uncanny, and as I said, such dreams are not granted me. But once dreamt, the words do not leave one, and I cannot dismiss the urgency that I feel! We must answer this riddle, sir, if we are to have any hope!" 

  


For a long moment, Denethor met his gaze in silence, weighing his son's troubled, eager manner, and the intricate chain of speculation added a few more links to its length. The steward grunted softly, and quoted, "'In Imladris it dwells. There shall be counsels taken... .' So, you have come to me for a boon, and would find Imladris yourself with my permission."

  


"I would, sir," Boromir replied steadily. 

  


"And why would I allow the heir to my station to leave the realm at such a time as this?" Denethor asked, his voice quite level, as though he were making some polite inquiry as to the other's health. But his son knew that tone too well, and felt the flutter of nervousness in his stomach. "Why should I not send Faramir?"

  


Boromir was silent for awhile, watching his father with troubled eyes as he considered the best way to respond. _Whatever I say, I must be certain that it is honest in the end. Not that I would lie, truly, but if I am not careful, he may press me too hard, and then!_ He refused to think about that eventuality, fearing perhaps that even such silent speculation might not be safe when he was alone in his father's presence. Given how long he had delayed his answer, though, he knew that he would have to begin with something that Denethor could question at least, and so he said, "Faramir is weary, Father. You have seen what this dream has done to him, you say, but he would also be the first to tell you that we need haste! If one of us must go immediately, then let it not be he! The way is long and the path unknown, and who knows what perils a messenger might meet with? To send him forth as he is now would be to condemn him!"

  


"Your concern is admirable, but given a few days' rest, he would be well enough. 'Immediately' can be so imprecise a phrase, after all," Denethor replied with a humorless smile. 

  


"That is so," Boromir admitted, drawing a deeper breath, marshaling his next response. "But there are other reasons. I" He paused as Denethor held up a hand. The steward crossed to the door again and opened it enough to summon the esquire. 

  


"Go, Verethon, and inform the lord Faramir that I would see him in my chambers. Now." With a bow, the esquire went, and Denethor turned shrewd eyes back to Boromir, who stared at him. For his part, Boromir wanted nothing more than to grab the lad and countermand that order, but there was naught that he could do for it was utterly out of his hands. "Since we come to this point, it would be only fair that Faramir be present to defend his claim, do you not think? And to tell me what he has learned and whence he has learned it, so as to shorten any search I might make and avoid redundancy." Boromir bit his lower lip gently, unable to speak, and so he simply nodded, once and sharply. And he tried to ignore the fact that his stomach roiled and his knees felt weak before the prospect of enduring his brother's accusatory looks. _I never intended for Faramir to be present!_ He had planned to present the other with a _fait accompli_ , for at least then he would not need to endure a heated argument, only his brother's recriminations. As forgiveness was already beyond him, he had thought it would be easier than asking his permission. _I did not want to argue with him, and now I shall have no choice. Valar on high, help me find the words and do not let me weaken! Blind my father, o spirits of the world, I beg! Do not let him see the true nature of my shame!_ An unworthy prayer, perhaps, but he could do naught else but wait in silence.

  


Denethor, for his part, calmly returned to the table and finished the rest of his tea, and if he had any concerns over the imminent confrontation, he did not show them. _What, indeed, has he to fear?_ Boromir thought bitterly. _This is to him but another cat-squall, a little thing, and that it will hurt Faramir further is nothing to him. And it is everything to me!_ Not that he would have done his brother no hurt, but there was a seemingly callous disregard for the other in Denethor's summons. _Or is there? It is fair, as Father said, that Faramir be present, even if I would prefer it otherwise. Why must it be so complicated?_ It seemed an eternity ere a knock sounded once more, and the esquire entered with Faramir in tow. Denethor's younger son had that somewhat glassy-eyed look of one who is not quite aware of his surroundings, but the instant he saw Boromir, those grey eyes sharpened warily. Suspicion entered his gaze as he cast a quick glance from his brother to his father, and though Faramir murmured a very civil 'good morrow' to both men, he clearly mistrusted this summons. The younger man stalked over to stand at Boromir's side, as was his wont in such situations, but Boromir knew with precision how far his brother stood from him. _Just out of arm's reach!_ "May I inquire as to the reason for my presence, Father?" Faramir asked, daring his father's gaze.

  


"You may. Boromir has told me of a dream" at which point Faramir stiffened and his eyes darted sideways to catch his brother's expression" that both of you have now had. He proposes to go to Imladris himself, but I would have each of your reasons laid plainly before me."

  


"I see," Faramir's monotone fooled no one who knew him well, and Boromir felt every muscle in his body tense before the volumes of reproach contained in those two words. "And when we have spoken, will you then decide, Father, who is to go?"

  


"If I think such decision is warranted immediately, then yes. Otherwise, I shall inform you when I have had sufficient time for reflection. Boromir is of the opinion that you at least ought not to go if the journey must be undertaken at once, and I would concur. You have taken no rest since you arrived, and lack of judgment tends to breed further errors of a similar nature," Denethor said, and Faramir gritted his teeth at the none too subtle criticism. 

  


"If I have taken no rest, Father, think not that it is out of any willful folly of mine, for this dream has tormented me by day as well as by night! But still I would go, for I fear I shall have no rest until this is resolved!" Faramir replied. "Moreover," he continued, reasonably, shooting a quick glance at Boromir, "My brother is your heir. You will have need of him, Father. Such tasks as this are a second son's duty, for we cannot risk Boromir's loss."

  


"Have you an answer, Boromir?" Denethor shifted his gaze to his older son. 

  


"Yes," Boromir replied, striving for an even tone. "Had the news not come two days ago, I might bow to such reasoning, but we hear now that Cair Andros is threatened, and Osgiliath's men must be disbanded and sent to the isle or elsewhere, wherever they are needed. Ithilien will need careful handling until its numbers can be increased. Faramir and I serve you in the field, Father, and though we study also policy, it is in Anórien and Ithilien, or south at Poros that we are most needed. But command in Ithilien calls for a particular type of cunning that suits Faramir well. Or so you said many years ago when first he left for that company, Father," Boromir pointed out. "If my lord steward wishes me to take my brother's place in Ithilien while he is gone on this errand, then so be it! But though I would learn quickly, I cannot, I think, rival my brother in that post. I cannot match nineteen years of experience, Father." He paused, and carefully did not look at his brother, then continued, "In this matter, Faramir is more indispensable than am I, who shall shortly lack a command. If someone must be sent, it would be far easier to send me."

  


There was a silence, and Boromir could feel the heavy chill in the air as father and brother considered his argument. Denethor, he knew, could not deny the validity of it, though he might be loath to release him. Faramir, on the other hand, had the air of one who fights to control an outburst, and Boromir, bowing his head, noted the other's clenched fists behind his back. Clearly, Faramir, too, recognized the logic of his brother's statements, but that did not ease the sting of betrayal. _I am sorry, my love!_ Boromir thought, wishing that Faramir could hear him in that moment. _But I cannot let you take this task. You are needed, and I cannot stay here. I simply cannot! Though I would never be parted from you, it is too late, for the abyss lies deep between us. And if I cannot stand at your side, then better for us both that I am far away, where I cannot hurt you further, and where Father will never suspect what has befallen._ He had a terrible feeling that he knew what Faramir's response to such an excuse would be, but fortunately, he might never have to hear it. 

  


"Your reasoning is sound, Boromir," Denethor said at length, and beside him, Faramir closed his eyes and bowed his head. "Much though I little like it!"

  


"Father please." Faramir spoke softly, and his voice was taut with dread, with pleading, and Boromir cursed himself inwardly. _Say nothing! Say nothing, Faramir, do not humiliate yourself in front of Father! Do not beg!_

  


"You have some further consideration to set before us?" Denethor demanded coolly.

  


"What could I say, but that I wish I had known his intentions earlier?" Faramir asked bitterly. "Why did you say nothing to me, Boromir?" his brother asked sharply, turning on him. Boromir sucked in his breath as he made himself meet Faramir's gaze. It was that or refuse to look at him, but Boromir had never been one to flinch, and if he did so now, it might rouse their father's suspicions. _Or it might not! Clearly this is beyond the usual pattern of our interaction. Would he read so much if I had refused? More than he might read now?_ But all such considerations were swallowed up almost instantly before the anger and loathing that lay in his brother's eyes. _How could you?_ Faramir seemed to ask, and Boromir had no answer for him. _None that I can speak of here, at least!_ He willed his brother to understand, to read his sorrow and his guilt in his silence, but he could not summon his voice to save his life. Something flickered in Faramir's blazing, accusatory regardsomething akin to understanding. But for once, understanding bred no pity in Faramir's heart. A look of utter disgust flashed briefly in those grey eyes, and then Faramir turned away. "I bow to the will of the steward in all things," he said tautly, facing Denethor once more. "If it be his will that my brother undertake this task, then I ask only that I be allowed to return to Ithilien soon. For there I shall be needed!" _As I am not here!_ The unspoken retort hung in the air, and Boromir could not prevent himself from wincing slightly. 

  


"The steward's will shall be declared, that I promise," Denethor replied. "But not yet. Though I can make no answer to Boromir's arguments, still I would withhold my judgment for a time. A brief time," the steward amended, letting his glance pass from Boromir to Faramir and then back again. Boromir felt that piercing regard and struggled to hold himself together under its weight. At length, Denethor released him, though a very odd look settled briefly in their father's eyesa flash of emotion so swift and transitory that Boromir wondered if he had imagined it. "Faramir, I shall require of you a list of all that you have researched, and a brief summary of your findings. Boromir, I would have you do the same. Bring me what you have ere noon, both of you. And then go and rest, for I perceive that neither of you has slept the past night." That last was said in a wry tone, as if the steward found it amusing to have to order his sons to bed as he had when they were both young children. "Go now. I have need of thought."

  


"Yes, sir," Boromir replied, bowing slightly. 

  


"As you will it, my lord," Faramir said, voice thick with barely restrained resentment. Both men left, and Boromir held the door for his brother. As the stairway lay beyond Boromir's quarters, they walked together down the hall, and Faramir's pace was quick. 

  


"Faramir," Boromir murmured, feeling that he had to try. 

  


"Speak not to me, since clearly you do not value my conversation!" Faramir retorted without slowing. 

  


"I had no choice."

  


"As ever!" Faramir stopped and spun round to face him. "I thought I knew you! I thought you knew me better than any other, and I trusted you with all that I am! And this is what my trust earns? Betrayal twice over? I would have accepted Denethor's judgment in any case, Boromir. Did you not realize that? Did you think me so prodigal a son that I would have rebelled against the command of my lord?"

  


"Would you have gone to Denethor if I had asked you to do so last night?" Boromir asked, glancing quickly about and praying that no others were near enough to hear them. 

  


"Who can say, for you did not ask!" Faramir replied, pausing as he searched his brother's face. "Last night, I hated myself that I had misled you all these years. I held myself to blame for what passed between us. But this I had no part in this, and still you betray me. You would have me forgive you that, all in a moment?"

  


It took Boromir several moments to respond, for his mind was caught upon that revelation: _I held myself to blame !_ "You to blame for no! Faramir, I You are not!" Bewildered, he shook his head, automatically reaching out to touch his brother's shoulder. "That is my shame alone!"

  


"Then add this latest offense to it. And take your hand off of my arm!" Faramir said in a clipped tone, and Boromir recoiled, snatching his hand back. "Father has set us each a task, and I mean not to fail in it. And as I have a longer list, I shall take my leave now. Good day, Boromir!" And then he was gone, though the click of his boot heels against the stone echoed for some minutes. Boromir closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall, passing a hand before his eyes as if to wipe away the scene. But he would never forget it, he knew. _Varda's stars, how much further can the knife twist ere it kills me?_ Unfortunately, so far as Boromir knew, no one had ever died of shame short of suicide, and that he could not countenance. _The coward's way out!_ But it hurt, oh how it hurt! _We know nothing yet_ , he reminded himself, struggling to regain his balance as he resumed the short walk to his door. _Father has not decided, and he may well choose Faramir instead of me. But that would not appease my brother, not insofar as the matter touches on me!_ The sick feeling returned with staggering force, and as Boromir shut his door behind him, he leaned back against it as if to keep out the darkened world. _What can I do? What can I do to make amends?_ But nothing came to him, and in the end there was still Denethor's order to obey. _Faramir at least has the right of it!_ With a shaky sigh that was almost a sob, he shoved away from his support and went to do his duty.

  


***

  


Faramir lay on his stomach on his bed, still fully clothed, and he had his pillow clasped tightly in his arms and his face pressed into it. His eyes felt gritty, and his thoughts had that befogged quality that came of too many waking hours and worry. Yet he slept not. Noon had come and gone, and he had brought his report to his fathera three-page list of books and maps, with page numbers where appropriate, and forty pages of notes scribbled out over the course of the week, along with a summary that was shorter than either list or notes. It consisted, after all, of but one line: _No findings of any significance._ Denethor had accepted the pages without comment and then dismissed him, which cut less than it might have, for he had other wounds that ran deeper. _Boromir!_ Wrath flared, and with it, pain that would not abate. He felt his brother's betrayal as a steady ache that afflicted his entire being, though it stabbed most sharply in his gut and chest. _How could you trust me so little? I thought you did love me, even if in a way I cannot accept, but now all is cast in doubt! If you loved me truly, you would have told me your intentions! You would not have tried to hide them!_ Faramir was not a violent man at heart, though he was adept at inflicting violence when need called. But it was not in him, usually, to wish another ill, unless it were Sauron; even orcs he did not despise to the point of wishing them to suffer. When he slew them, he did so quickly and cleanly, out of need to remove a threat, not because of blood-lust. And so it cost him something to lie here now and wish that his brother suffered as he did. It was a twisting of his soul that on the one hand only enraged him more, and on the other woke a horror of himself that he had rarely known. In fact, ere the twenty-ninth of June, he had never felt it before. _Certainly I never thought to feel thus in connection with my brother! I thought only Father could rouse such spite in me!_

  


_Let me forget!_ he begged silently. _Let me sleep and forget for awhile my cares! Is that so much to ask?_ But outrage, hurt and disappointment raced through the corridors of his mind in a frenzied dance, and though he tried to ignore them, he could not. _I could hate him, I think, if I let myself._ That realization stabbed cruelly at him, and Faramir clenched his teeth, feeling the bile rise in his throat. To hate his brother to hate the man who had been his protector, his support, his companion and his comforter he did not want to believe he could, but he knew not what else to call the feeling that pulsed sickly within his breast now. _Unless it is love, for still I love him. If I did not, I would not feel thus. At least with Father, I have had all of my life to accustom myself to his coldness, to the fact that he will never love me. I do not know if I have the strength to learn to see Boromir in the same light!_ A pause, as doubt welled up. _Or is it light? Is it strength? I know not!_ He knew only that his world lay dark about him, threatened from without and within, and he felt powerless before it all. As the Shadow Riders had stricken all who stood before them with mortal terror, such that they could not move to save themselves, he felt utterly vulnerable, to the point that he felt himself beginning to fall under the sway of his pain. _Did he even dream my dream? Or did he lie only in order to be sent away? I know well that he would leave this place, but Father would never have permitted it without good cause! Valar curse it all!_

  


So bizarre, so nightmarish had the past week been, and particularly the past few days, that he could not seem to resist the fascinationthe allureof that darkness, and found himself reaching out to touch it again and again. Like a man who could not let a wound close, he prodded the hurt, returning in memory to his brother's confession, to the touch on his face, the hand on his chest and the feeling of sick dread that had consumed him. Added to that now was the painful interview with their father, Boromir's guilty silence and looks, and the shameful conversation in the hall. It would have been asking too much of him to let such memories lie, but there was something unhealthy in this preoccupation. He had read once that there comes a point when the victim and the torturer become one, so that the former cannot but relish the pain inflicted, and the latter cannot hurt the other without hurting himself. At the time, he had not been able to fathom such perversity, but now. _Now I feel it, and I doubt not that Boromir does as well. Twist the knife a little more, please, brother!_ He could confront Boromir again, assail him with his pain, and let that agony flay the other to the bone. For Boromir would not resist, he knew; indeed, the other clearly felt he deserved no more, and Faramir was not above rubbing salt in the other's wounds if he asked for it. And that only made his own shame the worse, so that whatever pain he derived also felt merited. It was sadistic; it was masochism of the worst sort, and it was the only bridge left between the brothersa bridge built of living flesh, and one that took pleasure in its own destruction. _Hurt for hurt, we bleed ourselves out and revel in well-deserved pain_! 

  


_NO!_ Faramir gasped and jerked up onto his elbows, realizing that he had been on the edge of falling into his dreams, where thoughts run wild and stray to the furthest boundaries of the soul. His heart pounded in his chest, and sweat drenched him though he shivered. _What have I become? What have I become that I can dream this, even?_ Anger, he could justify; hurt, he was permitted; but hatred? _No, I may not. Surely I cannot! 'Tis exhaustion that speaks now!_ With a groan he curled up onto his side, squeezing his eyes shut once more. _Sleep, Faramir! Recover your wits! If for no other reason than that Father ordered you to, rest!_ And to his great surprise, he did, falling almost instantly into oblivion.

  


  


***

  


When next Faramir woke, it was dark and for a moment, he could not remember how he had gotten into bed. He lay quietly, trying to recall the events of the day, and his body felt heavy and inert as thoughts tumbled through his mind. But they did not careen or scatter like seeds to the wind, which was an improvement, and Denethor's second son sighed softly as memory returned. _I walked away from him again,_ Faramir thought. Never before had he and Boromir gone so long in an argument without resolving their differences. There had always been a sort of unspoken agreement between them that come what may, ere they slept, they would forgive each other. _And now that I have broken that agreement, what now? Whither shall we go from this point? Whatever happens, it must happen swiftly, for I doubt me that I shall remain in the city for very long. Denethor will not forget my 'request' and I may not withdraw it! I belong in Ithilien, for better or for worse, and there is much to do there._ Faramir did not dare to hope that his father might send him to Imladris, wherever that valley might lie, not after the arguments this morning. Sleep seemed to have transmuted his bitter resentment towards father and brother into a disappointed resignation, however, and it was not as if he disliked Ithilien. At least there, he had purpose and the power to fulfil his duties as befitted a prince. _Thus I ought not to lie abed like a slug! I ought to begin to ready myself to return over the river._ And still, he did not move, too comfortable to contemplate facing another long night. It had been so long since he had slept for any appreciable amount of time, and though duty called, he knew he needed the rest. In fact, this was the first time since the battle for Osgiliath that he had not dreamed at all. _Valar be thanked!_ Faramir thought, closing his eyes once more. It was so pleasant just to lie still.

  


Before he knew it, he had dozed off once more, drifting on the edge of warm darkness. But this time, images did float through his mind, though a part of him knew them for phantasms. Sunrise over Ithilien, as he had seen it so many times over the last score of years and yet he never tired of the sight Minas Tirith's tower standing tall on the horizon, glittering in the noon day sun sun on the river Anduin. But the Haradrim were not shackled to the darkness like the orcs, and Faramir was dazzled by the light that lanced off of their keen blades as the river disgorged them. And behind them were the shadows ! _Run!!_ his mind screamed, and yet he could not seem to move. The riders spurred for him, and still he stood, rooted to his spot, as they loomed larger, larger, filling his vision and he was going to die! Someone crashed into him, throwing him to the ground just as the riders thundered past, sweeping by them without slowing. Faramir felt his heart racing, felt the other's weight and panting breath as they lay where they had fallen and waited for the horror to subside. An odd lethargy seemed to suffuse him, as if the warm earth against his back had leeched him of his strength. A hand touched his face, slid down to his chest and paused, and he blinked up at a familiar pair of worried grey eyes. _Boromir?_ His brother said naught, only gazed mutely at him. _Boromir, are you hurt?_

  


_Only if you are,_ Boromir replied, sliding his hand down further, and Faramir caught his breath, tensing. _Are you?_

  


_What do you want?_ Faramir asked, still unable to move, it seemed. No response, only the feel of the other tracing patterns lightly over his stomach, spiraling down down.

  


_I love you!_

  


And Faramir opened his eyes with a gasp, automatically reaching to grab his brother's wrist, only to snatch at air. Light streamed through his windowthe pale light of dawn, though he could not have slept for very long. _When I woke the first time, it must have been early morning,_ he realized. _I slept through the whole day and the night beside!_ With a soft groan, he rolled onto his back and lay there, staring at the ceiling and listening to the still swift beating of his heart. _Boromir I never shall be rid of you, shall I?_ he thought, swallowing hard. Sunlight spilled over him, hot though the hour was early yet, and he felt it creep into his blood and bones, its warmth stealing throughout him. _'I love you!'_ Boromir's voice whispered forlornly in his mind, and on impulse, reacting, perhaps, to that still-vivid dream presence, Faramir raised his right hand and hesitantly laid it over his heart, as Boromir had done now in life and in dream. And then, under the same odd impulse, he began to follow that dream caress, trying to remember whatif anythinghe had felt only minutes ago. Fingers trailed over his chest, lazily over his taut stomach, to brush feather light if lingeringly over his crotch and down his left thigh. Faramir shivered and quickly sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. _What am I doing?_

  


Disturbed now, uncertain and quite perplexed, Faramir shook his head sharply, throwing off the mood of the moment before. _Dreams! If I never dreamt again, I would account myself most fortunate among men!_ His own behavior confused him, for he was quite certain that had Boromir attempted to touch him so in waking life, his response would have been violent. _Why, then, did I do that?_ Faramir searched his mind for a rational answer, and could come up with but one: he missed Boromir. Missed him enough to try to find a way through his own disgust to endure what he thought his brother must want of him. _But I cannot love him thus. I do not, and I would not have him love me so. If this is what he wants I cannot give it! I may not. Valar help me, why can I not let go?_

  


For several minutes he sat there, head bowed, wondering at the twists of fate and trying to decide whether he was more angry with Boromir or with himself. In the end, though, he felt naught but a perplexed sort of grief and hurt that wanted no part of anger. He knew not whether he could avoid it, for wrath was a powerful emotion, and he knew himself well enough to know the dark places in his soul where it might breed and whence it could burst forth. But for the moment, his mind turned to less weighty issues. He had slept in his clothes, and as he had not slept at all the night before last, he felt disheveled and in need of a bath. Whatever trouble his dreams still gave him, he still must face the day. _Should I speak to Boromir?_ he wondered as he undressed. A part of him wanted to, but though that part argued hard, the greater part of his heart still quailed and flinched away from the idea of another confrontation. _Even though instinct tells me that soon we shall be parted and sent once more upon our separate ways?_ Faramir frowned slightly, wavering. _Father promised us an answer soon, and whatever else I may think of the steward, he has never broken his word. Time grows short, and there is so much to resolve!_ But in the end, he simply did not feel ready to hold a civilized conversation with his brother today. Tomorrow might be a different matter, but it seemed as if he would avoid his brother yet again in the hopes that time might bring him a measure of peace and of courage. 

  
__

I only hope that it comes not too late for either of us!

  


 

  



	8. A Father's Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slash fic with a high angst content, now complete. The curious shall read, the others will blithely remain ignorant of even the 'pairing.' Nothing new added, merely posting cleaner copies of the chapters, as I've been meaning to do for awhile now.

  


"Gentlemen," Denethor's voice cut through the babble of astonished and angry— _And frightened,_ Boromir thought darkly—voices, instantly arresting the council's speculations. Across the table, Faramir sat back in his chair, hands steepled before his face as he watched the other councilors sit up (or sit down, whichever was required of them) and focus on the steward again. As always, he had said little this morning, and the news out of Rohan had elicited naught but a raised eyebrow from him. He and Denethor had remained silent and watchful while the rest of the council had erupted into amazed and despairing debate, and Boromir, though he had acceded to the questioning of his neighbor, Lord Torost, had also had little to say. 

  


_What, after all, is there to say? Shock and outrage avail us nothing, and fear but worsens our case,_ he thought. That was true enough, but a part of his mind sneered at him for his careful omissions. If he were completely honest, he would admit, if only to himself, that Faramir's presence and mood were affecting him, and he suspected that his brother was just as aware and troubled by their proximity as he was. For though Faramir habitually said little unless he had something of importance to say, his quiet observation generally gave no hint of brooding or willful inscrutability, seeming instead quite natural—the product of a circumspect temper. Today, however, there was a stony, determined quality to his silence that felt subtly wrong to anyone who knew him well. _As I do. And as Father may!_ Boromir thought, flicking a glance at the steward himself. 

  


Denethor, as was his wont, sat at the head of the table and his dark eyes touched upon each of the councilors until he grew quiet, attentive once more to the steward's will. It was rather like taming a pack of excited hounds, Boromir had long ago decided, and when his turn came, he quickly surrendered to that probing regard, dropping his eyes to focus on the piece of paper that lay beneath Denethor's hands. 

  


A messenger had arrived in the dawn-light bearing Edoras' response to the news of the Shadow Riders, precisely one week after Denethor had sent a man west with the tidings. As the journey from Minas Tirith to Edoras was a hundred leagues, one would expect a certain delay, but either the messenger had tarried on his way or else Edoras' court had taken a good three days to ponder the tidings. That seemed hardly necessary, given their brevity and the fact that naught could truly be done to protect oneself against this menace. That their own messenger had been returned early and with no answer but a terse acknowledgment of the news and a promise of further communication had been ill-borne, so that there were now many on the council who read in Rohan's long silence a none-too-subtle insult. 

  


Boromir was one of them, and he chafed at the bit in silence but managed nonetheless to restrain himself. Gondor had few allies who did not already pay her homage, and whatever the position of the court of Edoras, Minas Tirith could not afford to alienate Rohan further. _For it is as Faramir and Father have said: there are many in Rohan, even those who hold rank, who are disturbed by Théoden's decisions in matters of war. They know their peril, and but that they are loyal to their king, they would act more openly. There is still hope that some may come to our aid in Théoden's despite!_ Truthfully, Boromir pitied those too-honest souls saddled with a king seemingly gone blind to reality, who were torn now between their oaths to their liege-lord and the need of not only their people, but of a people and nation that had been an ally and friend since Rohan's inception.Nevertheless, pity could not change the message that had come: 

  
__

To Denethor, twenty-sixth in the line of the Stewards of Gondor, Lord of Minas Tirith. Regarding the matter of the Shadow Riders, so says Théoden son of Thengel, King of Rohan:

  


Report of the fell riders has come north through the Eastfold. We are aware of the danger and shall take what measures we may to secure Rohan against what threat nine riders may make. Such as they are, they remain a less urgent trouble than the bands of orcs that cross through Anórien, though we shall send word should they return through our land.

  


The closing formula, being required by legal custom, had done little to appease anyone, or to mask the blunt import of the message: _Look to your own borders and trouble us no further!_ It was bare civility, and who knew how long that would endure before the break finally came? Denethor gazed upon the troubled faces of his council and Boromir sensed a certain grim contempt, as if the steward found their outbursts unworthy of Gondor's elite. 

  


"Gentlemen," Denethor repeated, "We are not come to indulge our outrage, but to determine what course we might take that would strengthen our cause. Rohan's message, uncouth and unwarranted though it may be, is not yet a breach of treaty and we cannot make it one. In Rohan lies our best hope of allegiance in arms, and to whom else, indeed, could we turn?" There was a dispirited silence, for all knew well the answer to that question: no one. Although Gondor traded to the north with the Bardings of Dale and Laketown, the distance was too great, and the resources of both kingdoms too strapped, to make supply lines and war-time allegiance feasible. They had each their own borders to protect, and as with Arnor of old, any help that either kingdom sent would likely arrive too late and leave he who sent such aid vulnerable. Eriador was a wasteland in terms of men and armies, and to the south, the wary contacts with the northernmost Haradrim had long since been broken. Dunland was hostile to Rohan, and Isengard seemed to disdain all such troubles and refused to intervene in any way.

  


"What answer, though, should we make to that, my lord?" Mirhal asked, indicating the scroll with distaste quite evident in his tone. 

  


"To that I have already given thought," Denethor replied. "It is true that we cannot answer this latest insolence with threat, for the court of Edoras knows well our position. But there are other ways of conveying our displeasure. Messengers will be sent back to Edoras by various routes, and along their way they shall visit the Marshals of the Mark. The Marshals see reason, and know well that the safety of their borders is guaranteed in part by Gondor, and that however many orcs may traverse Rohan's fields now, more would come were our protection withdrawn."

  


"I thought, sir, that we sought to abstain from dealings with the Marshals," Faramir spoke softly, but many were the faces that turned to him. Father and son locked eyes, and Faramir did not back down, remaining impassive before Denethor's lancing regard. 

  


"We do," the steward replied after a moment. "But a messenger may have more than one message, and not all of them need be official. What a man says as a private citizen is not the same as what he says as a herald."

  


"That seems a thin ruse, sir," Faramir replied. "Even with a marriage proposal as the carrot to the stick." That elicited another flurry of murmurs and gasps, and Denethor actually glared at Faramir for that indiscretion. Boromir simply bowed his head and wished he were somewhere else. _Anywhere else! The borders of Harad are always active, and the watch on the Black Gate is ever in need of fresh blood!_ He had not thought his brother would dare to speak that far out of turn, for as of yet, Denethor had made no announcement of his scheme. Boromir certainly had not spoken of it to anyone. And though it made perfect sense to bring the issue into the open now, Faramir knew well that Denethor reserved that choice to himself.

  


_What do you hope to accomplish, brother?_ Boromir wondered, unable to fathom this uncharacteristic behavior. _Other than to rouse Denethor's ire? Unless he wishes Father to send him away… but that would not get him to Imladris. It might eventually see him to the inside of a cell!_ That last was highly unlikely, for Faramir was not that rash, but Boromir did not understand his brother's motives. 

  


"Let it be transparently thin, Faramir, it does not matter so long as they say nothing of it. Which they shall not," Denethor replied in a rather clipped tone. "If you have naught of use to say, then I pray you remain silent!" All around the table, a stillness fell, as if every man held his breath, awaiting the response. The lord of the city rarely told a proven captain to shut his mouth, not in public, and no one was certain what to expect. Boromir, even, feared his brother's response, and he leaned forward, trying to catch Faramir's eye in warning.

  


But Faramir said nothing, only bowed his head in smooth acceptance of the rebuke and settled back into his seat as if he had been awaiting just such a dismissal. And though others cautiously relaxed, sensing that the confrontation was over ere it could truly begin, Boromir felt queasy, uncertain what to make of the gleam in the other's eyes. Denethor spared a moment more to glare at his younger son ere he turned to the others once more. "Since the matter has arisen, the content of the official message shall be a proposal to Éowyn of Rohan through her uncle, cousin, and brother. That excuses the employment of three messengers, for haste is needed, and we do but observe the custom of Rohan in alerting three male relatives of our interest. Now, such a proposal will be a matter for much discussion, and there are many who would see a match between Gondor and Rohan prosper, for it would benefit us both. Between Théodred, Éomer, and other such captains as must by law be present to discuss the idea, that may be pressure enough to force Théoden into a very explicit alliance with us. If successful, Rohan shall have little choice but to aid us. Either that, or Théoden must disown his sister's daughter." Which was highly unlikely, for however fallen Rohan's king, it was well known that he loved his niece. _Of course, it was also well known that he loved his nephew_ , Boromir thought, and did not miss the look that Faramir tossed him. Clearly, his brother was thinking the same thing, but what point was there in bringing up the possibility of failure? The attempt had to be made, even if Boromir found himself feeling sick all over again at the prospect.

  


"There is little else to be done about Rohan for the present," Denethor concluded, after a long moment. Boromir, still gazing at the table top, felt his father's eyes slide off of him after that pause, and risked looking up. Mirhal, who sat directly across from him, was looking at him as if with pity, but Faramir was apparently absorbed by the table as well. Except that beneath the veil of thick lashes, Boromir caught the glimmer of the other's eyes, and realized that his brother was very carefully watching their father. The steward, fortunately, did not seem to notice, having passed to other issues. "We must turn to our own defenses once more, even as Théoden King would bid us do," said he. That got an uneasy spate of chuckling, but the mood did not lighten appreciably. "I have delayed our council this morning in order to give Faramir the time to reconsider his deployment in Ithilien, and also to let Boromir look more carefully into the matter of Osgiliath's garrison." At that, Faramir shifted his gaze to his brother, and Boromir, too, frowned slightly. He had not known that Denethor had requested that of his brother, and apparently Faramir had not known that Boromir, too, had been asked to address the problem of making their manpower stretch to cover the gaps in their borders. But in the end, that was a minor thing, and their mutual ignorance was none of their own doing but the product of their father's manipulation. 

  
__

There are so many other points upon which to hang our grievance, after all! Boromir thought miserably. He listened in silence as Denethor laid out his synthesis of the brothers' solutions and recommendations, and others began to discuss the merits or deficiencies of the redeployment. In all fairness, it was likely the best plan they could manage, given their shortcomings, but Boromir had no heart for such debate today. He had hoped that perhaps Faramir might speak to him before the council had begun, but his brother had sent no word. Hardly surprising, now that he knew what he had been doing, though he was rather suspicious of his presence today. Denethor had made such a point of refusing to invite his younger son to participate, and of dismissing him from council that his inclusion, apparently at the steward's request, felt anomalous. _Granted, it does make sense in light of Denethor's desire to discuss our movements in Ithilien and elsewhere, but I cannot be at ease with that excuse!_ Unfortunately, Boromir had no objective reason for such concern, and he needed what attention he could spare to keeping in check his troubled reaction to his brother. To be in his presence and yet have no opportunity to speak to him was torture; the need to conceal his suffering only worsened it. But Denethor's eyes haunted him, and he feared the occasional probing regard. _At least Faramir is in better control of himself today, in spite of that misstep earlier,_ Boromir thought. His brother seemed much more alert, as if he might actually have slept for some length of time, and his attention was much more focused and less emotional. Denethor was far less likely to read anything from Faramir today, though what he might have gleaned from that awful meeting two days ago, Boromir still did not know. He himself had been very discreet in his father's presence ever since, and he had seen no further hint that the steward had discerned aught of the real issue that lay between the brothers. _Mayhap I truly did imagine that look out of my own fearfulness!_

  


"A question, if the steward will permit," Faramir's voice broke through his thoughts just then, momentarily putting an end to the discussion as all eyes turned once more to him. Denethor turned and locked eyes with his son, and for a long moment, the two strove thus in silence, while the others looked on uneasily. _What now, Faramir?_ Boromir wondered with a sudden thrill of dread. _You would not be so rash, would you? Valar help me, is this your response to my maneuverings?_ For he could think of naught else that would so occupy father and brother, and Boromir clenched his fists so hard under the table he felt his nails bite into his palms. A glance at Denethor proved that the steward was less than pleased with his younger son, but once again, Faramir's question could not be forever kept silent, and if he had brought it out earlier than Denethor might wish, there was now point in refusing it. 

  


"Be brief, since I know well whereof you would speak," Denethor said after a lengthy pause. 

  


"My thanks," Faramir replied neutrally, and for the life of him, Boromir could not have said whether that gratitude was sincere. "Whom would the steward choose to oversee these changes? For in our private words, it has become clear that we shall soon lack a captain." Everyone sat up straighter at this, and many a dark and doubtful glance was cast up the table to where Denethor sat, watching Faramir with a measuring gaze. "The only question, is which one?"

  


"What mean you by that?" Mirhal demanded of Ithilien's commander, adding a "my lord" hastily to the back of that sharp question. 

  


"Yes, what new counsel is this, my lord steward?" Húrin asked, daring to address Denethor directly. And when the steward spoke not, he turned to gaze at Boromir. "My lord?" For if Faramir knew, then it was understood that Boromir did as well, and had for longer at that. But neither brother spoke, instead choosing to leave the matter now with Denethor, and the steward glanced from Faramir's direct gaze to Boromir's reluctant one and then back again. 

  


"Counsel I would not call it," he said at last. "But nonetheless, we must deal with it, though I had thought to keep it awhile longer." The rebuke was unmistakable, but Faramir refused to retreat, and the steward continued, "The line of Mardil dreams true still, it seems, and we have been set a riddle. A rhyme that may contain the seeds of our salvation… or else our doom." Denethor's heavy gaze swept the room, and no one stirred, bound now to silence by a sort of eager, yet dreadful, fascination. "'Seek for the Sword that was Broken: In Imladris it dwells/ There shall be counsels taken stronger than Morgul-spells./There shall be shown a token that Doom is near at hand,/ For Isildur's Bane shall waken, and the Halfling forth shall stand.' So Faramir and Boromir both report, and have sought to discover the meaning of these staves. As of now, I have had no more success than they in this task—" which news was greeted with the exchange of ominous looks "—and though I am loath to dispense with the services of either, it is apparent that short of sending a messenger to Imladris, we shall never know the answers to our questions."

  


"And what is Imladris?" Húrin asked. 

  


"It is the home of Elrond Half-Elven," Denethor replied, which caused Boromir to flick a glance in Faramir's direction. His younger brother, too, seemed surprised by this, but a thoughtful look settled on his face as he considered this new bit of information. _Elrond Half-Elven… Gil-galad's herald…._ But other than the role he had played at the battle of Dagorlad, Boromir knew nothing of Elrond's history. He desperately wanted to ask whether Faramir knew more, but even had they had the chance, he could not be certain his brother would tell him. _Not as things now stand between us!_ "Imladris lies somewhere in the northern reaches of the Misty Mountains, and is or was an Elf-haven. But long since has it passed from the knowledge of Men into vague legend. Yet it may be that we shall rediscover the truth of the matter, for as Faramir correctly discerned, it is there that we must go. I would gladly send a herald or an errand-rider were it a simple matter of alerting a neighbor of long standing. But we know naught of that land, and I fear I must send someone of greater rank… and also greater knowledge."

  


"Whom will you send, my lord?" Torost broke in, unable to contain himself, and from the attention of the others, it was clear that the same question occupied every mind at that table. Boromir found himself holding his breath, and he noted that his brother leaned forward slightly, back tense. 

  


"That I shall not yet declare," Denethor replied after a moment, and immediately, protests arose. Faramir sank back into his seat and closed his eyes, partially shielding his face from view as he leaned his forehead against his hand. Boromir read the other's frustrated disappointment, and indeed, he also felt it. _Perhaps that was all he wished, to push Father to an open decision,_ Boromir thought suddenly. _But why would he choose to do so in council? It was well-done, but almost reckless, I should say, if he hopes to go himself! Unless he hoped that others would speak on his behalf and so convince Denethor to let him go. Faramir, will you not speak to me? Tell me what you think!_ Alas, his silent demands went unmet, for Faramir appeared not to notice him at all. Indeed, he seemed to have withdrawn into himself, away from the clamor of the others and beyond his brother's reach. 

  


***

  


The council ended in confusion, which was a rare thing, and Faramir wondered sarcastically if he ought to count that an accomplishment on his part. After he had arisen that morning, and just ere he was ready to leave his room, Verethon had arrived to tell him of Denethor's commands concerning Ithilien. "The steward would have you be present in council to answer any questions, my lord," the boy had added, which invitation had been most unexpected. Faramir had pondered it all that morning as he had worked to fulfill his father's command, wondering at the motive behind it. He had thought he had guessed it, for what else could Denethor want than to declare himself in the matter of the rhyme? There was literally no other reason for Faramir to be present there, for Denethor was quite capable of presenting his own work to the others and of handling any queries. _And yet I guessed wrong, it seems! Curse it all, why do you toy with us like this, Father? Can you not for once trust us? Even Boromir knew not what your intentions were!_ That much he had read easily, and also his brother's alarm over his own seeming-brashness. And his pain. Faramir gritted his teeth, fighting against his own conscience which whispered ever and anon that he must speak to Boromir. He owed his brother that much at least, and yet he could not approach him. _I am afraid of what I may say… and of what I may see in him!_

  


In the mean time, he waited in silence for the other councilors to leave, steeling himself for the inevitable lecture and carefully marshaling his defenses so that Denethor might not read more of his troubles than met the eye. _For I at least am not a traitor!_ So said forlorn pride and despairing love, and as the door shut behind him, he raised his eyes to meet Denethor's. His father's expression was carved flint, and Faramir rose and stood as one before a judge without being asked. "I suppose you regret your actions, Faramir," the steward said coldly. "Confusion, bewilderment, chaos… we cannot afford such luxuries in time of war, as you well know, and yet you have brought them upon us. What have you to say?"

  


"I am sorry, Father, that the council parts divided, but I thought the issue could wait no longer."

  


"Sorry, are you?" Denethor snapped, and Faramir felt his cheeks heat in response. "Do you think that a steward's son can waste energy on being sorry? If you will challenge me, then best you forget regret for you cannot afford it! Have you learned nothing over the years?" 

  


"If my actions were wrong, then it is only meet that I regret them! That at least you taught me! But was I wrong, Father, to bring this matter to their attention? Is it not the council's place to know of all that may affect the governance of this realm?" Faramir responded, striving to answer with logic his father's demands. _For as the sun rises, I dare not flinch too badly before him now!_

  


"That is my judgment to make, wretch! I did not ask you here to speak of these matters."

  


"Then why, Father, did you ask me here? What purpose, a councilor who will not speak his mind? Or did you wish only a mindless repetition of my report? That you could have done yourself, and have done often enough since you will not have me be present at these sessions! Boromir could have done it, had you asked him," Faramir responded tautly, meeting his father's gaze once more. "I would gladly learn my purpose here, and do whatever it is that duty demands, but you will not speak plainly to me in such matters!"

  


"Your purpose here is to learn, nothing more! And to teach me the matter that lies between you and your brother," Denethor shot back coldly, and Faramir went very still. _Teach me the matter… Valar protect us!_ "I know not what it is that sets you now against each other," the steward continued, advancing slowly toward him. "But I will have an end to it! Well? Speak! You have said that you would do as duty required of you, so hold to your words, son of mine!"

  


Faramir tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry, and he felt suddenly very light-headed. _I cannot tell him! If he were to know…. And yet if I do not, he will never forget it or forgive me my silence! Is this what Boromir felt all these years? Is this what he felt when I faced him that night and demanded an answer? When we sparred in that courtyard?_ Trying to quell the rising tide of panic, Faramir took a deep breath and frantically searched for some plausible lie that he could offer up. "I did not wish him to go to you with this, sir," he managed, which was true enough at least. 

  


"That I saw quite readily, and so find your indiscretion today ironic." A hand caught his chin and forced him to look into his father's eyes, which flashed now with cold fury. "Do not think to feed me a half-truth, Faramir. This is more than a broken promise, for I saw it in you the moment you entered my chambers two days ago. Before that, I saw it in Boromir's distraction, in your avoidance of each other. What has happened?" A half-dozen curses chased through Faramir's mind, and he wished the creativity that had spawned them would inspire him to answer his father's question. But nothing came to him. His mind seemed to have shut down, as if to protect the secret, for what he could not even articulate to himself could not be betrayed so readily. Denethor's grip tightened to the point of pain, but he still said nothing, enduring the other's merciless gaze. "Faramir…!" The lashing intensity of his father's voice made him recoil involuntarily, which only caused the steward to clutch him more strongly and Faramir fought his gag reflex as the steward's fingers stretched further to grip higher, closer to the juncture of his throat. He was beginning to feel as though his jaw would be dislocated, and Faramir clutched blindly at his father's arm, nails digging in automatically in defense. Yet to no avail, for he felt not flesh but… metal! His eyes widened in surprise at the feel of fine chain mail hidden beneath the steward's clothing, and Denethor's eyes narrowed as he released him suddenly. Just as quickly, Faramir let go, sensing that the steward would take it very ill if he continued to hang on. Folding his hands tightly behind his back, Faramir refrained from rubbing his aching jaw and drew a deep breath. _I must not show weakness! No more than I already have!_

  


"Whatever this matter be, it is between us, Father," he finally managed, and his voice sounded harsh and unnatural to his ears, but fierce nonetheless. "And only between us! This is not your business, Steward of Gondor!" 

  


Denethor stared at him for so long that Faramir began to think that he had struck too hard with that last denial. But it was said, and could not be retracted now. _And I do not wish to retract it,_ he realized. _This is not his business! Not as the steward, and at least as concerns me, not even as my father for he has been none for too long a time now._ Indeed, Faramir had never thought that the steward's interrogation had aught to do with concern for his, Faramir's, sake. If the steward had any worries, they were for his first-born; and if he asked Faramir to speak now, it was only because the steward viewed him as the weaker of the two and thus more readily manipulated. That stung his pride, but also his resolution: he would not be used against his brother. _Let him ask Boromir, if he is so concerned! Let him ask the one he loves and leave me be! For Boromir can defend himself well enough!_ Denethor hissed softly in apparent frustration, which frightened Faramir badly. He had never seen his father lose control so badly before, and as one who might be considered a connoisseur of Denethor's wrath, that was saying much. "May I leave, Father?" he asked, and felt greatly daring for having done so. 

  


"Get out!" Denethor said softly, in a tone that would have chilled the fires of Orodruin. Faramir did not even bother to bow ere he turned and walked away. As soon as the door had shut behind him, he began to run, and there was but one thought in his mind: _I must tell Boromir! I must warn him!_

  


***

  


Boromir was on his way back to the library with an armload of the books he still had, courtesy of Faramir, when running footsteps caught his attention. _Probably one of Father's servants, for who else has cause to rush to this place?_ he thought. His own esquire had very helpfully made a start at the task, but Boromir had dismissed him for the afternoon once again. _Poor lad likely feels unappreciated, I have used him so little!_ But he was in no mood for company, and even though it was a menial task, it was physical, and gave him something to do other than worry about what Denethor must be saying to his brother. Certainly it was better than wondering how under Varda's stars he would approach Faramir himself if the other came not to him in the next day or so. And it helped distract him somewhat from the uncertainty that the steward's refusal to declare himself had awakened. Unfortunately, all three concerns together were too much to forget in the doing of this one insignificant chore, and he was quite preoccupied as he strode towards the library entrance. 

  


"Boromir!" His head jerked up at the sound of his brother's voice calling him, and he turned to see the other careen around the last corner, apparently having caught glimpse of him just in time to follow. 

  


"Faramir? What—?" Boromir quickly glanced around, fearful of eavesdroppers, and he lowered his voice. "What is it? What is wrong?"

  


"We need to speak. Now!" Faramir half-wrenched a book from his grasp and hailed a man whose dress marked him as one of the librarians. "Return these for us, good sir," Faramir ordered, darting a look at his brother that would brook no delay or refusal, and Boromir wordlessly surrendered his cache to the man. "Thank you. Come!" 

  


"Come whither?" Boromir demanded as he followed in Faramir's wake, confused, unsure of what to make of this sudden urgency. On the one hand, he was relieved that his brother even spoke to him, but Faramir's obvious fear filled him with foreboding. It did not take him long to realize where they went, and he suppressed a sigh as the two of them made for the western tower of the Seventh Circle. _Whatever it is that troubles him now, it must be serious indeed to bring me to this place once more!_ he thought as they began the long ascent. Boromir followed Faramir up the ladder and through the trap door onto the platform, and as a precaution, he drew up the ladder ere he shut the door. 

  


Faramir was waiting for him when he turned around, and the glowing intensity in those grey eyes sent a shiver down Boromir's spine. Whatever the news, it seemed terrible. And yet despite the urgency of the moment, Faramir remained silent, watching Boromir like a hawk, seeming to try to read his thoughts and mood. Boromir, for his part, frowned slightly as he noticed something like bruising beneath the stubble that covered his brother's jaw-line. Faramir preferred to be clean-shaven, but of late he had had too many other cares to worry overmuch about incidental things like shaving. _Perhaps I imagine things…._ Boromir took a step closer, but froze instantly when Faramir eased back to hold the distance between them open. "Faramir… I will not touch you," Boromir promised, spreading his hands at his sides as if to show himself unarmed. "I only want a look at you."

  


"Look then from where you stand," Faramir replied, but though there was tension in his voice, his tone held none of the scathing contempt and anger that it had held two days ago. There was discomfort, certainly, and a touch of fear, but Boromir could not honestly begrudge him that. And so he nodded slowly and clasped his hands behind his back to drive the point home, feeling his own tension ease a bit when Faramir relaxed slightly. 

  


"As you wish. But what is that on your face?" Faramir traced the darker area and grimaced slightly. 

  


"Denethor…." he growled, low under his breath but Boromir caught it. 

  


"Did Father strike you?" He could not keep the incredulity from his tone, for it had been long indeed since their father had raised his hand to either of them. 

  


"No, he grabbed me," Faramir replied darkly. "He did not wish me to be able to escape him, for he would know what matter drives us apart!" Faramir folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against a merlon almost defensively, though there was now anger in his voice as well. "I know not what he suspects, but he has known of this for too long already: since the day after we fought, if not that same day!" Boromir felt himself go absolutely rigid with fear and he closed his eyes, counting his heartbeats until he felt as though he might be able to breathe again. 

  


"And… learned he aught from you?" Boromir asked hoarsely, opening his eyes once more. 

  


"Do you truly believe me to be that hard-hearted?" Faramir asked, cocking a brow and gazing candidly at his brother. 

  


"No… I … I meant it not thus…."

  


"Or perhaps I am, I know not!" Faramir sighed softly and released his brother from his gaze. "I told him nothing, only that it would remain between us, and that it was not his affair."

  


"Thank you," Boromir breathed. 

  


"There is naught to thank. For it _is_ between us alone, and Denethor has no place in this," Faramir replied, and then surprisingly, he laughed softly, incredulously. "I told him that! He will not forget it, ever!" Just as quickly, though, he sobered once more and raised pained eyes to Boromir's face as he admitted, "But who knows how much he may have read in my despite? Something in my face or manner may have betrayed us, I know not!" _Betrayed us… betrayed_ us _… not 'you'… 'us'…._ Boromir knew quite well that his brother could not love him, not the way that Boromir loved him or would love him. But that he did not reject him utterly, that he still counted himself somehow bound to Boromir in spite of it all, was more than Boromir would have dared to hope and relief flowed through him like water. "He will summon you, brother. He will ask you, and he will expect you to tell him. I cannot even guess what will happen when you refuse, but be cautious! He was in a fey mood today, and I know not why this should matter to him so. Perhaps because he sees that it upsets you, but I like not the feeling that I have now. There is something dangerous in our father, Boromir, and I know not how to counter it. Nor even what it is!" Faramir slid down the merlon to sit with his knees drawn up and his arms locked loosely about them as he gazed up at his brother. Boromir stood there, looking back, and fear and dread warred with relief, hope, and concern. After a moment, he sighed softly himself and let himself down a good arm's length away, though he sat cross-legged so he could rest his elbows on his knees.

  


"I never thought," he said slowly, "that I would account Minas Tirith more perilous to me than orcs!"

  


"Nor I, though I have rarely been easy here." Faramir replied. A pause followed, and Boromir darted a look at the other out of the corners of his eyes. Faramir seemed to be struggling with himself, considering his next words apprehensively… nervously. Finally: "Do you recall our conversation that night upon the high tower when we spoke of marriages?"

  


"Only too well!" Boromir sighed, running a hand through his hair to cover in part his discomfiture. _How could I forget?_

  


"I asked you then, whether any woman of Gondor had caught your eye, and you said no. I realize now why that is, but…." Faramir flushed, which was hardly like him, and he cleared his throat ere he continued softly, "I would still know… was there ever anyone in Gondor whom you have loved?"

  


"Only one," Boromir replied, meeting his brother's tormented gaze. "And though it be quite hopeless a love, he has still my heart in his keeping. He always shall, for I have never met another who was his match! Nor shall I ever." Which confession and promise only unsettled Faramir further, he could see it; but after a moment, his brother drew a deep breath and nodded, as if in acceptance of something he could not change.

  


"Twice now, I have told you that I depended upon you. Minas Tirith I could call my home only when you were there as well. After… after I learned how you felt about me, I felt beset, and I have had no peace—nor even hope of it!—since," he replied. 

  


"Faramir… I never meant to tell you, but that it seemed to me that you knew already. When I realized that you did not…." Boromir fell silent, the words stuck in his throat. How indeed could he explain precisely the degree of utter dejection and horror that he had felt? Would even Faramir know words that could express those feelings? _I doubt it!_ With an effort, he continued, "I would never have acted, for I knew well that you did not love me."

  


"I _do_ love you," Faramir replied, firmly, but gave his brother a slight, sad smile when he looked up, "But not like that!"

  


"Then do not fear me, for I would never do aught to you. Can you not see that? I am still your brother, and a man not unconcerned with honor, in spite of my weakness! If you ask me not to touch you, I will not--not in friendship, nor even in play. And I will not look your way again if that is what you wish. But you cannot ask me to cease to love you, Faramir! Sooner ask me to be Denethor, for I might have a better chance!"

  


"Nay, you would fail, for to be our father you would of necessity have to learn to despise me, brother," Faramir replied dryly, with just a hint of real humor. "I am sorry that I doubted your honor, Boromir. And I have complained of you in my thoughts for misreading me!" He shook his head mournfully. "Unjustly, as I now perceive!"

  


"You could never be unjust, Faramir," Boromir replied, dismissing the possibility. "'Tis not in you to be thus."

  


Faramir gave a slight shake of his head as he raised his eyes to his brother's face once more. "You think too much of me, Boromir!"

  


"Aye, I do," the other replied, and miraculously managed to elicit a soft snort of laughter from his brother for that double-entendre. But Faramir's humor faded swiftly, and Boromir sighed. "It is too soon for laughter, I suppose."

  


"It is just… I wish that it were otherwise, but I need more time, Boromir, to learn to trust once more and fully. Were it not for Denethor, I would not have sought you out today." Which revelation hurt, but Boromir made himself accept it, and he nodded.

  


"Then take the time. And know that I am grateful that you did so, for at least I will not face our father unprepared." He stood then, feeling that it would be best to end this while there was a note of cautious optimism in the air. Faramir stood as well and hauled the trap door open once again, then waited while Boromir settled the ladder securely in the hooks in the ceiling. There followed an awkward pause, as both men hesitated, neither willing to make a move lest it be misinterpreted. At length, though, Boromir took the initiative, descending quickly, and he went and stood by the stairs, careful not to watch while his brother climbed down, afraid to jeopardize their fragile rapprochement. And to be perfectly safe, he led the way down the steep steps, feeling Faramir's eyes on him the while. _At least he will look at me now. At least we have spoken, and perhaps one day we may retrieve something of what we once shared!_ It would never be the same, but so long as there was something solid upon which Boromir could depend, he would be well content. _At least now I need not fear revelations!_

  


"Boromir," Faramir said when they had almost reached the ground level, and the older man paused, turning to look up at the other. Faramir's face was downcast, but that hardly mattered at that angle, and so he saw the quick spasm of pain that rippled across the other's features. "You understand that I cannot promise you aught. Only that I shall try, in whatever time we have, for one of us must soon depart. But do not hope for too much!"

  


Boromir swallowed hard, then nodded. "I understand."

  


"Good. Then I shall go now and see to Ithilien, for it would not do to ignore my own advice in that matter!" His brother managed a slight smile for that, and then ducked past him, going quickly back towards the tower. Boromir, on the other hand, stood in silence for a long while, turning their words over in his mind. It was hard not to hope, and he knew not what constituted "too much" as Faramir had left it. But whatever the case, their conversation was something, and he was desperate enough to take whatever acceptance his brother could manage. 

  
__

Set that aside now, Boromir, he told himself firmly, drawing a deep breath as he began his own walk back towards Ecthelion's white tower. And for the first time, that brilliant spire cast a shadow of dread over him. _For I have still Father to face!_

  


  


  


******

  


*Rhyme of Imladris from FOTR, 240 (In the Council of Elrond for those with different page numbers).

  


  



	9. Come Undone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slash fic with a high angst content, now complete. The curious shall read, the others will blithely remain ignorant of even the 'pairing.' Nothing new added, merely posting cleaner copies of the chapters, as I've been meaning to do for awhile now.

***********

  
__

And so I come now to the edge, to the nighttime of my soul:  
Stretched upon the door of death, I would deny its dreams,  
And turn my face up to the light that streams from depths unseen;  
Ah, wakefulness is endless now within this sleeping lull,  
Where blind eyes see the clearer and fear doth lose its thrill.  
Let me touch now mortal sickness that my love shall learn its toll.  
And on the edge of deep desire, shall I fall now? Yes, I will!

  


\--Silvaríel of Arnor

  


***********

  


Boromir did not like what he saw, and he scowled as he rubbed at his eyes, vainly wishing that perhaps the situation would improve in that brief interval. Alas, not even an Elf or a wizard could change the hard facts: even with the additions from Osgiliath, Cair Andros would need either a vastly increased food supply or a drastically increased number of horses in order to adequately defend the swift route into Gondor. Minas Tirith could provide it with neither in short order, and though Denethor's heir searched through the military records and pushed markers about on a map, the fundamental equation did not alter. There were simply too many posts in need, not enough men to cover them all, and not enough money to make a difference. Denethor had the dubious distinction of having levied the heaviest set of taxes since the Kin-Strife of Gondor, but given the escalating expenses of an undeclared yet fomenting war, Minas Tirith did well to balance its expenditures against its income and have enough left over to manage some foreign trade.

  


_We are stretched too thin, and soon something must break. If we knew with certainty whence the enemy would come, we might be able to mount a credible defense and even win a battle, but the Dark Lord is not a fool, whatever else he may be!_ If Gondor had Rohan's open support and cooperation, Denethor could replace the bulk of Cair Andros' company with the horsemen and disperse those relieved from both Osgiliath and the isle to other places. _But even were Rohan willing, it has orcs aplenty at its back, threatening to raze Edoras, and so can spare us little attention. We might be able to buy horses, I suppose, but even in times of peace, the Rohirrim do not barter their steeds cheaply. The Bardings are more reasonable in matters of cost, but their mounts are smaller, less able to endure hard use, not as intelligent, and fewer in number in the first place. I doubt they have horses enough to export, not in the quantities that we need in Anórien,_ Boromir mused. 

  


With a snort of exasperation, Boromir tossed his pen down on the ledgers and pushed back from his desk, abandoning the effort for the nonce. Since mid-afternoon, he had devoted his time to the problem of trying to make Cair Andros even marginally more effective, but the costs were prohibitive for too small a return. A part of him—the part concerned solely with a warrior's honor—sneered at such motives and excuses, but he was Denethor's heir and could not ignore the economics of the situation, even though he knew he would sentence the bulk of the survivors of Osgiliath to a grim end when the Dark Lord at last moved. After what they had already suffered in defense of Gondor, it seemed cruel to abandon them to another doomed outpost, but there was no other choice. _For all that it is acrawl with orcs and other enemies these days, they would be safer in Ithilien!_ he thought darkly. _At least they would have Faramir to lead them._ Not that he mistrusted Brindithal, the captain assigned to Cair Andros, but the man was not his brother. Of course, he would not want Faramir in Cair Andros, either, whatever its need, and he sighed again for the contrary, tangled logic of the heart. 

  


And while he pondered the recommendations he must inevitably give Denethor in this matter, he wondered whether he could possibly manage to submit them through a proxy. _At least then I might find use for my esquire._ But the steward would send for him anyway, and so such a tactic merely delayed the hour of confrontation. _I am truly thankful that Faramir warned me, but this feels too much like standing on the edge of a battle, waiting for the enemy to show himself!_ he thought, grimacing.

  


Why did Denethor wait? If he were concerned enough to ask Faramir, why, then, did he not demand an answer of Boromir in similarly short order? _Does Father even begin to conceive what torture he inflicts?_ Boromir wondered. Given Faramir's agitation this morning, he found it hard to believe that the steward was unaware of the brothers' meeting, or that Denethor could fail to recognize his younger son's intentions in seeking out Boromir. And still, the steward said no word and sent no summons, which left his older son in a state of dread confusion. _What does he truly know? Has he any knowledge of what Faramir is to me? Or is it no more than a father's perception of some trouble between his children? It might simply be that, for why else would Denethor let the matter lie? But if it were that simple, would he wait so long to call me before him?_

  


Unable to contain his own nervous energy, Boromir rose and began to pace, while his thoughts went in circles like a falcon in search of prey. Unfortunately, the prey was armed with weapons more powerful than a falcon's talons, and Boromir did not know how deeply Denethor might cut. And as patience had never come easily to him, the delay gnawed at his nerves 'til he was nearly frantic. Indeed, he was surprised by how long he had been able to concentrate this afternoon, given the unsteady state of his soul. _Easily, Boromir, do not let your father drive you! The first lesson of the battlefield is that one must never allow the enemy to dictate the encounter._

  


Which means what in this case? That I should return to the problems of Cair Andros? Or that I should continue the equally futile speculation as to Father's probable knowledge and motives? Gritting his teeth in frustration, Boromir made himself stand still, attempting to still his mind with the cessation of his physical movements. Faramir was the one who studied philosophy, but Boromir did not need books to know that the troubles of his mind were reflected in his posture and gestures, and that the reverse to some extent also held true. _I need to do something,_ he thought. _Something useful, but what can I achieve here? Nothing! The Black Gate watch looks better all the time!_

  


Blowing out a large sigh, Boromir returned to his work, to the tedium of dotting i's and crossing t's on a report that stated nothing either new or good, and he tried to ignore the tension in his back and shoulders. With an effort of will, he looked again over the list of Osgiliath's survivors, feeling a terrible pang of guilt for what he was about to do to them once again. _Mayhap I had the right idea earlier,_ he thought suddenly, turning his eyes to Ithilien once more. _Some, at least, have the skills that Faramir needs east of Anduin… yes. There may be some chance yet that a few may be spared a hopeless position on the Isle!_ Spurred on by the idea, he threw himself into the task with more energy than he had managed the entire day. Faramir had not asked for them, but he needed men, and would welcome anyone with enough forest-craft and initiative to help fill the duty rosters. _And at least this is one gift that he can accept from me!_

  


***

  


Meanwhile, Faramir left one of the barracks and tugged at his collar against a warm wind that whistled through the evening. After his conversation with Boromir, Faramir kept himself busy for the rest of the afternoon, afraid that if he let his mind wander too far, he would fall back into brooding over father and brother. Addressing Ithilien's needs at least made him feel useful, and by the end of the day, he had managed to recruit a number of forest-wise men with sufficient arms training to make good scouts and useful additions to the company. Obtaining a release for them from their current duties ought not to pose a large problem, since word had gone down days ago that Ithilien stood at the head of the list for replacement of its losses. Still, he imagined he would be accused of poaching for a time, but as it was his company at stake, he would willingly endure the reproachful mutterings of company commanders. 

  


Unfortunately, once the sun set and he had finished with his work, that left him entirely too much time to think. _At least I have achieved an economy of worry, for now it is not Denethor or Boromir separately that I fear, but the two of them together!_ he thought with wry, almost morbid humor as he walked the streets of Minas Tirith, moving up from the lower circles where he had gone to speak with the men he had tapped. 

  


Lamps were being lit all over the city, and he paused to watch the proliferation of lights. Like fallen stars they gleamed, racing up and down the streets, recalling the war-beacons that lay along the approach to Rohan: one after the other after the other. _Like time… like life… one moment follows the next and one never knows where it all leads_ , Faramir thought, resuming his walk. 

  


Men and women flowed about him as they finished their daily business and went now to their homes. And if they gave him a somewhat wider berth for the sword at his side and the finer cut of his clothes that proclaimed him a nobleman, in the lamp-lit obscurity he was essentially anonymous. Just another of those who dwelt on the heights, a half-seen face without a name, and he found it a relief not to have to respond to the formal courtesies usually extended him. And given what faced him in the Seventh Circle, Faramir indulged in a brief fantasy of leaving title and rank behind. _To have a father who is not Denethor, and a brother whose love I could safely return…!_ It was a lovely fantasy, but one that he quickly discarded, feeling rather irritated with himself for having entertained it, however briefly. It would not help him tonight, nor ease his doubts and fears; indeed, it could only make them seem worse.

  


_And I could never surrender the responsibility, or the craving for it,_ he admitted. _I am perhaps more ambitious than many believe. In that at least, I am my father's son! Is that why we rub each other raw whenever we face each other?_ That was certainly a part of it, Faramir mused, thoughtfully tangling a finger in a clinging forelock. But there had been more behind his father's outburst earlier that day than strained and abraded ambition, though he could not seem to chase down the precise terms for the emotion that had flashed in Denethor's eyes. 

  


_And how shall Boromir fare with him? Have they spoken yet, I wonder?_ Faramir was not certain how Denethor's affection for his brother would affect his interrogation of his older son. He knew very well that their father was capable of punishing Boromir, and sometimes quite painfully. That night upon the tower, Boromir had reminded him of that, and as much as Faramir had suffered emotionally in his early years, Boromir had usually been the one to suffer more severely the physical punishments their father had doled out to his sometimes unruly sons. _There was that time when Boromir could not lie on his back for three days,_ Faramir remembered. _And after the window incident…!_

  


For years, both boys had feared their father's opprobrium, knowing well that he would not spare the rod if he caught them. Such things seemed less serious now, for Faramir had been hurt far worse in sword practice, not to mention the injuries that came of too many years in the field. _And we knew that he did not intend to hurt us for the sake of causing pain, but because we had overstepped the boundaries._ It had been love, of a particular and difficult kind, that had driven those painful but necessary punitive encounters, and even as a very young child, Faramir had recognized that. Perhaps that was why he had never dreaded the lash so much as his father's tongue, and upon reflection, it was only when the lash had disappeared that his relationship with Denethor had truly begun to sour. _For then I had naught but his contempt and cold lectures._ It was enough to make him wary of the prospect of fatherhood, but having suffered through Denethor's hard ways, Faramir was convinced he could not possibly do worse.

  


_Of course, it appears that Boromir will likely be a father before I am,_ he thought with a grimace. He had no idea how his brother would manage in a marriage, but Faramir did not look forward to watching him flounder. And at the moment, though he wished that he could change his heart, he could not stomach the thought of his brother's need for him. It was hard enough for him to look to the immediate future, to the argument between Boromir and Denethor that he knew must come—and soon!—and know how badly his brother would need his support. _And how could I withhold it, when Boromir has caught me so often when I stumbled? How could I fail to stand by him, either now or in twenty years?_

  


The younger man sighed inwardly, firmly quelling the flutter of nervousness in the pit of his stomach that roused at the thought of his brother's touch. As he had told Boromir frankly that afternoon, he simply was not ready to resume anything approaching their former affectionate relationship, but he had the feeling that as with many endeavors, preparation would be cut short. Need brooked no wavering, no hesitation or delay, and as he had been forced into command early by his own desperation, he would doubtless be forced back into the crucible of fraternal obligation earlier than he would prefer. _I wanted responsibility. Well,_ he thought with grim amusement, _I have it now in this matter, so I ought not to complain of it!_

  


In the mean time, he could at least be grateful for the fact that the dream-verse had not assailed him even once today. Were it not for his own anxiety over Denethor's delayed choice, he would perhaps not even have thought of it. _But thanks to Father's evasions, I return to it constantly. Imladris, home of Elrond Half-Elven, whom many account among the wisest of the Age._ Of the other sages, legend had little to say, but that Galadriel of Lórien was one, and the Shipwright Cirdan another; but whether those shadowy figures out of the days of Eldarin dominion remained upon Middle-earth's shores, no tale told. Of the wizards Curúnir and Mithrandir, the former seemed to have grown disinterested in the troubles of the time, which Faramir accounted an alarming state of affairs, and as for Mithrandir…. _He does as he will, and though I doubt not that he lives still, his movements are a mystery to we who dwell here. Would that he were in Minas Tirith, for perhaps he would be able to shed light upon that wretched rhyme!_ Faramir thought.

  


Alas, if Mithrandir were to appear, he also had no doubt that Denethor, ever mistrustful, would do all in his power to keep his younger son away from the wizard. 'Meddling trouble-maker', Denethor had labeled him more than once, and cuffed his son for hanging upon the wanderer's words. But Faramir had always been drawn to the aura of kindly nobility and the old man's obvious wisdom. _And there is something else about him, something that I cannot name but which draws men to him… or ought to, at any rate._ It was no more than a feeling, and one that lay just beyond the verbal, but the sight or thought of Mithrandir stirred it to life each time, so that Faramir knew—beyond certainty, beyond his ability to express—that the Grey Pilgrim would never fail them at need. _And after so many years of doubt about my father, that is a welcome feeling,_ he thought as he approached the final gates.

  


For one in good health and accustomed to exercise, it was an hour's swift walk from the lowest level to the highest circle of the city, and Faramir, not eager to return to the turmoil of the seventh circuit, had tarried somewhat along the way. Nevertheless, he made good time out of habit, and returned the salute of the guards who admitted him without question. Faramir, ever observant, had noted the change in the atmosphere as one ascended to the heights: tension had grown steadily the higher he climbed, and that was not surprising. For if Denethor kept secrets from his own council, there was much that did not reach the lower levels of the city. In the common neighborhoods, where the bulk of Minas Tirith's citizens dwelt, Rohan's increasing isolation was but a rumor of trouble; the threat of Mordor overshadowed considerations of political fracture and strained resources; and the losses at Osgiliath and Cair Andros had yet to be made known in full.

  


What had fascinated Faramir as he had passed through the levels of the city was the fact that the rhyme of his dreams had somehow leaked out to the population at large, for he had heard much discussion of Isildur's Bane and Halflings, and he wondered who had let loose that bit of information. _Perhaps Denethor himself,_ he thought, for given that the verse gave cause for some hope, the steward might well have decided to use it as a bulwark against the dark tidings of heavy losses that might otherwise have damaged the city's will to continue the fight. But here in the heart of Minas Tirith, such tidings were as a drop of water in the desert: almost a mockery of hope, though one that could not be refused. _And so we wait, and hope that Denethor shall soon release us from this interminable guessing game!_ Faramir thought.

  


As he glanced up at the Tower of Ecthelion, he noted again that odd greenish light that flickered in the window of the highest room, and he frowned. _What is that?_ he wondered, eyes narrowing. _A torch I would call it, but that it seems too powerful… and green!_ Over the long centuries, Minas Tirith had acquired its ghost stories and legendary hauntings. There were those who held that the spirit of the long-dead Mardil Voronwë kept watch of late in that isolated chamber, awaiting either the end of the city or perhaps the return of the kings of old. Faramir doubted that such tales were anything more than another sign of the fear and desperate will to hope under which all now lived, but he was not prepared to dismiss such ideas categorically. _I have dreamt too often, and read of too many strange accounts to think that Arda is only what we see before us. Still… there is something about that light that stirs doubt in me. I know not why, though._ Tearing his eyes from the unnatural radiance, Faramir drew a steadying breath and continued on his way to the tower where his father held sway. _There is yet one company that I have not considered raiding,_ he thought, and felt anxiety tingle at the base of his spine. _Boromir's!_

  


***

  


Boromir jumped at the knock on his door, and cursed softly over his own startlement. Rising from the table, he gave himself to the count of five to settle his nerves and assume a more dignified mask. In that brief pause, the knock was repeated, a little more loudly, and this time, Boromir called back, "Enter!" The knob twisted, the door swung open wide enough to show Faramir standing there like an apparition, and Boromir blinked. This was certainly unexpected, for he had thought his brother would continue to avoid him unless pushed by necessity to speak with him. Which was why, when he found his voice, he asked, "Faramir… is something the matter?"

  


"No, nothing," the other replied, and though the younger man's tone seemed quite calm, Boromir could see the strain in his brother's eyes: the effort and determination to mask his uneasiness, to come and deal with Boromir in spite of his misgivings. "I would speak to you, though, about Osgiliath's survivors. If you have a moment," he added after a minute but telling pause. _Does he wish me to be busy? Or does that question bespeak his own anxiety?_ Likely, his brother had spent so much time working up the nerve to come here that he had only just thought to wonder whether Boromir might have other tasks to oversee. 

  


"Come in then, for I, too, have given thought to their fate today," Boromir replied, matching his brother's neutrality. Faramir obeyed, quietly, almost reluctantly, closing the door behind him, before he approached the table. And Boromir, reading his brother's uncertainty, clasped his hands behind his back again to reassure him. "Sit, if you will." 

  


"I would prefer to stand for the moment," Faramir replied, and the other nodded, trying not to feel hurt. 

  


"As you wish, of course," Boromir turned his attention away from his brother and quickly rifled through the stack of papers that lay atop the table, searching for the one he wanted. "Do I guess rightly that you come in the hopes of filling the empty places in Ithilien's guard?"

  


"You do. I have asked men of every company stationed in the city this afternoon, and I doubt not that the officers gather even now to curse my name," he added with a certain wry humor. "I should have asked you first, but I did not think of it." 

  


"Perhaps it is better you did not, for it gave me the time to consider the question myself. Here is my list, and if any of these suit your need, then take them with my blessing. 'Tis a less certain fate than restationing at Cair Andros!" Boromir said fervently. Faramir grimaced and accepted the list that his brother slid across the table to him. 

  


"What had the steward to say to your analysis?"

  


"Naught. I have not seen him yet," Boromir admitted somewhat shame-facedly. 

  


"I see." Faramir replied, his tone indicating that he did indeed. With a sigh, he quickly glanced over the names his brother had supplied and nodded as he folded the paper and tucked it into his belt. "Thank you. I shall take the recommendations and I doubt not that Father will approve." Their business essentially concluded, there came then an awkward pause as each man sought for something to say, either to end the meeting gracefully or find some harmless topic of conversation. Faramir lowered his gaze, feeling very much aware of his brother's eyes on him, of Boromir's effort not to look too closely. On the one hand, he was grateful for the consideration, but on the other, he felt unaccountably guilty for the lengths his brother went to on his behalf. As he scrambled for something to say to break the painful silence, his glance strayed across an open book on the table, and he cocked his head curiously as he reached out and snagged it, turning it so he could read it properly.

  


"'And so I come now to the edge, to the nighttime of my soul,'" he read aloud, and gave a soft grunt of surprise. "Silvaríel!" He glanced up at Boromir. "You surprise me, brother."

  


Boromir shrugged, feeling the heat rush to his cheeks. "It… seemed appropriate tonight. In truth I know not why I turned to it, except that your words stuck in my mind that evening."

  


"And has it helped, her poetry?"

  


"Perhaps," Boromir admitted with a faint smile. "It keeps my mind occupied, at least, and that is much to me today." He paused, considering what he might say next. A part of him wanted to take Faramir by the hand and reassure him of his good intentions, but he doubted that that would do more than stir the other's fears again. Yet he could not bear to let this silence endure. "Faramir, I—" 

  


"Do not say it!" Faramir cut him off quickly. "I cannot hear it. Not now."

  


Boromir shut his mouth and looked away, drawing a deep breath. "As you like it, then."

  


"I am sorry, Boromir, I… I should go. Thank you for your help." Faramir sounded sincerely chagrined. And for all that he walked without haste, he seemed almost to flee out the door. 

  


Boromir stared after him for a long moment, feeling the ghost of his presence hovering in the room. Then, with a sigh, he grabbed the book off the table and retreated to the bedroom to finish reading. It had struck him, as he had sat there trying to decipher Silvaríel's striking yet somewhat cryptic verses that he was in some sense waiting for someone to come, though he had had no reason to think that that someone would be Faramir. But now that Faramir had, he felt a certain relief, as if he had exhausted his purpose here and no longer needed to remain in the outer chamber. He crossed the floor quickly and had almost reached the inner door when another knock sounded, and he let out an exasperated oath. _What now?_ In addition to Faramir, he had had a few other visitors, all of them councilors come seeking some further insight into the matter of that wretched dream. _If I have to tell one more person that I know nothing more than I have told and been told…!_ he thought gloweringly, and rather than call out to whoever waited on the other side, he strode quickly across the room and yanked the door open. "What matter—?"

  


"What matter indeed," Denethor said, cutting into the silence that followed Boromir's abortive question. And from the dark glitter in his eyes, it was clear that he would tolerate no evasions.

  


***

  


An icy chill wafted in with the steward as Denethor crossed the threshold and pulled the door firmly shut behind him. Boromir stared at him, his expression mask-like, but to one who had mastered a _palantír_ , it was but a feeble disguise for the dread that lurked beneath. Denethor could feel the tendrils of his son's fear reaching out to him, probing and withdrawing as if burned, and though he had come to expect such furtive evaluations—and indeed, found a certain satisfaction in rebuffing them—tonight he felt nothing. Nothing, unless it were the agonized disappointment that lay beneath his iron will. Clearly, his son had anticipated this meeting, and though he bid Denethor good evening as he set the book aside, there was an edge to his voice that was telling: Boromir had awaited this hour with the enthusiasm of a man facing the gallows. _Ah, but my son, you were condemned long ago, and your present dread is late in coming to you!_ Denethor thought, eyes flicking over the other's person, noting the tension of the other's frame that betrayed itself in the attempt to give a relaxed appearance. "What brings you, Father?" Boromir asked, managing a neutral tone. 

  


_As if you do not know well my motives,_ Denethor thought, and wondered whether he approved of the other's refusal to be pushed into a confession. On the one hand, it bespoke a certain measure of self-control not to allow panic to drive him, and one who aspired to the rule of Gondor must never admit to weakness; but on the other, Denethor felt his contempt snarl loudly at the other's maneuverings. _For it is over, and he knows it!_ The steward gave a mental head shake. _That is of no concern,_ he reminded himself. _Let him writhe how he likes, he shall not escape in the end. And ere I am done, he shall see and say what he is, and learn the meaning of shame!_ It was a hard lesson to learn, as Denethor knew well from his own experience, but it could not be postponed any longer.

  


The steward had always kept a close watch on his children, the better to correct their mistakes and teach them the meaning of vigilance; and though he had not set out to use it thus, the _palantír_ had greatly aided him in his observations. Thus, he was aware of Faramir's periodic dealings with Éomer, and of the long hours that he spent with his brother whenever the opportunity arose. 

  


For indeed, it had been Faramir who had at first warranted Denethor's suspicion and surveillance—Faramir, whose love of literature and music had early earned him twitters from other children who preferred to play at war; Faramir, whose affectionate demeanor as a child and a young man had made others despair of his ever rising to competent command; Faramir, who adored his brother with all the fervor of one smitten. What had begun as a useful means of gaining information about the far-flung reaches of Gondor and Mordor, even, had gradually become as well a means of cataloging Faramir's faults and building a very detailed map of the other's personality and decisions. Except that in one important respect, that map was flawed. Much to his shame, Denethor had not realized his error until that very week, until Faramir's inexplicably angry and fearful response to his brother and subsequent avoidance of him. That had forced the steward to reevaluate his conclusions, to look back through the lens of illicit insight, combined with his own formidable intuition and deductive powers, and the result had come as a shock even to him: faced with a sudden wealth of minor but telling details, the situation had reversed itself, and he had turned his eyes to Boromir with suspicion and horrified disappointment. 

  


And guilt—that, too, and if Denethor reproached himself bitterly for his own fault, the anger and resentment born of that guilt spilled out onto his sons. The confrontation with Faramir had on the one hand blunted the edge of those seething emotions, but his absolute refusal to discuss what specifically had passed between himself and his brother had only added to Denethor's fury. Boromir being guilty in any case, it was now his turn to face his father's complicated wrath. For the steward had invested much time in the crafting of this confrontation, and the various permutations were worked out in exquisite detail. _And if Boromir wishes for the moment to pretend that he knows not whereof I speak, then so be it!_ "What brings me is a matter of some importance to us both," Denethor replied coolly, watching his son carefully. Boromir gave no visible sign, but it seemed that he flinched nonetheless, and the steward pressed onward, demanding sharply, "Where is your brother?"

  


"I suppose that he has gone to his room," Boromir replied somewhat evasively. 

  


"Then it was he that I saw leaving but a few moments ago?" Denethor asked, though he knew the answer quite well. 

  


"Yes, sir."

  


"And what was his business with you this night?"

  


"We discussed transferring some of Osgiliath's men to Ithilien," Boromir replied, then added helpfully, "I doubt not that you shall see his requests delivered tomorrow."

  


"You advised him in this?"

  


"Nay, I but gave him a list of prospects, Father."

  


"And did you speak further afterwards?" Denethor pressed, sensing the other begin to squirm inwardly. 

  


"Not truly," Boromir seemed to hedge, and his father narrowed his eyes as he paced forward, bending his course to circle his son. Denethor's heir stood still, unwilling to try to turn to follow his progress, but clearly he was uncomfortable. _As well he ought to be!_

  


"Did he stay long?"

  


"There was little to discuss," Boromir frowned anxiously as Denethor planted himself before the younger man.

  


"Do you love him?"

  


"I–he is my brother, Father!" At that, the steward pinned his first-born under a piercing gaze, watching as Boromir strove first to return it, then to endure it, and finally simply to hold himself still beneath the lancing regard. _Cleverly done, Boromir, and I had not thought you had it in you to lie so well!_ Denethor thought, with a certain grudging admiration for the other's determination to play this out to the final throw. A part of the steward had rather expected Boromir to cave more quickly than this, for his elder son had a less complicated view of the truth than did Faramir. _But I ought to have known better, for what he lacks in sophistication, he compensates for with a warrior's obstinacy._ From the desperate, yet determined, gleam in his son's eyes, Denethor realized that this oblique approach would let him he wear away at Boromir's defenses all night, but without piercing them. _And so we abandon the more subtle pressures for more obvious ones._ Denethor felt something twist within him at the prospect, for he knew full well what that might require of him if he were truly to force his son to a recognition of the fatal flaw in his makeup. _But every sin deserves its shame—this is mine, and his as well!_

  


"Do you tell me then that you love him or that you do not?" he queried. 

  


"I… of course I love him… how could I not, since we have grown up together?"

  


"And he knows this?"

  


"Yes…."

  


"Ah," Denethor responded mildly, cocking his head at his son, and then demanded rather more sharply, "Did you take him to bed with you?"

  


"I–What?!" Boromir exclaimed, retreating a pace from the steward. 

  


"Have you loved him, Boromir?" Denethor advanced a step, and Boromir retreated again, shaking his head as if dazed. "Do you dream of him? Or have you done more than that?" Another step, and another retreat, pace for pace in a parody of a dance. "Answer me!"

  


"Father…." Boromir gazed at him with mute horror, unable to speak, shocked by how very bluntly his father confronted him. 

  


"Your silence has always been your best defense, Boromir," Denethor spoke now scathingly, sneeringly almost, and one who knew him well might have recognized the despair that underlay such accusations. But Boromir had no eyes for such subtleties, not at the moment, as Denethor continued to advance on him with such menace and threat that he could do naught but give ground before him. The wall pressed hard against his back, and Denethor stood too far within his space, eyeing him with a sort of resigned contempt. "But once pierced, it does but mark you as guilty!"

  


"I have done nothing!"

  


"'Nothing' did not drive Faramir from you, Boromir!" Denethor shot back, dismissing that claim. 

  


"This is our affair–"

  


"That is precisely what I fear!" Denethor snapped, and Boromir flinched openly, unable to withstand that cutting tone of voice. "You share everything between the two of you, and always have, after all."

  


"Not _everything_ ," Boromir protested.

  


"But you do desire him. Do not attempt to deny it, Boromir, I see it in your eyes! You lust after him, like a bitch hound in heat! Did you think I would not notice?" Denethor demanded, sparing Boromir not at all. "You are my son and the heir to the stewardship, and what affects you affects Gondor above all else! I will not see that office sullied with this filth!" And on that last word, Denethor's left hand shot out and down, quick as a fox and twice as desperate. Boromir gasped, almost choking as his father pressed thumb and fingers hard against his crotch, digging in just above his testicles. Any other man would have found himself flung across the room out of sheer, combative reflex if nothing else, but despite the completely unexpected pain, Boromir simply cringed back. Such was the power that Denethor projected in that instant that even reflex could not challenge him. And when Boromir started to collapse under the pressure, the steward simply used his other arm to press him back, pinning him to the wall. "Did you think me blind?" Denethor demanded, and in the face of the other's shocked disbelief and hurt, his voice lost some of its icy tone as the agony seeped through at last. "You love your brother too well, Boromir! I ask now only how far it has gone: _did_ you take him to your bed? Well?"

  


"I never did aught to him!" Boromir protested desperately, reaching down to clutch ineffectually at his father's wrist. "Or with him! I swear it!"

  


"And what worth, your word, when you have sought to deceive for so long?" Denethor asked in a low voice. "You cannot excuse this incestuous… this _profane_ … desire of yours!"

  


"N-no excuse… I know I s-should not, but I cannot… ai… cannot help this!" His son shook his head despairingly. "You cannot understand…!" Boromir's voice rose on that last word, hitting an octave he had not managed in years as Denethor thrust, pressing harder still. Agony lanced through Boromir, and he blanched sheet white as a moan caught in his throat and the world began to grey about the edges. " _Father!_ "

  


"Can I not?" Denethor ignored the plea, and his voice was silken smooth, laden with scorn and disappointment. "In the beginning I thought you safe enough; it was _Faramir_ who gave your mother and I cause for concern. Alas that the taint bred true in you!" And as Boromir dragged incredulous eyes up to search his father's face despite the excruciating pain, Denethor shook his head slowly as he murmured softly, almost gently, "I know what you are, my son, and I know well what it is that you feel. But I never weakened! I did my duty to my house and realm… married your mother, had children by her… watched as realization turned to revulsion and thence to despair and sickness, ending finally in death! It will be the same, I doubt not, with you and Éowyn. But that is your duty to curse now. I do not know how you betrayed yourself to Faramir, and I do not wish to know! What hold you have on him I know not, but I fear the consequences." 

  


The steward gazed intently at the shocked expression on Boromir's pale face, and he proffered a grim smile, which gesture felt as obscene as it likely looked. "So tell me not that I cannot understand, my son! Rest assured that I do!" With that, disgusted— _sickened_ —by the awful tableau, Denethor released the other, easily breaking the wrist-lock to step away. 

  


Boromir felt his legs give way beneath him as the steward retreated. And though he managed _somehow_ to refrain from cradling injured parts, he drew his knees up defensively and bowed his head, willing the nausea to subside, trying to keep his hold on the world. _He knew… he knew … because Father, too, is…._ He could not manage to complete that thought, and felt himself shaking as if chilled. Over the faint ringing in his ears, he could hear his father's voice, grim and taut, continue on, and the words burned into his soul as if set there with a brand, "Blood always tells, they say, and it is true enough. I would have spared you this if I knew how, but I could not dissuade you in your affection for Faramir, though I tried! He is weak himself, but in a different way, and if you must love a man, at least let it be one other than he who is your brother! Well that Finduilas died without knowing your nature! I have made a practice of being sparing in my sorrow, but if there is one thing that I regret, it is that this taint did not die with me!"

  


Boromir flinched at the fury in his father's tone, but was still too shocked to muster a response. Revelations aside, he had never seen his father so deeply disturbed by anything, and a part of him cringed in shame for the fact that he had been the catalyst for this uncharacteristic display. Desperately seeking an anchor for his sanity amid the pain and disorientation, Boromir remained huddled on the floor, and it was long ere he registered Denethor's dark-swathed form kneeling before him, the better to watch him, apparently.

  


"What would you have me do?" Boromir whispered at last, unable to meet his father's eyes. "I cannot change this… Valar know I have tried! I tried for so long to deny it…!" At which point his voice broke, and he could not continue as the years of frustration and agonized acceptance seemed to fall squarely on his head all at once. Humiliation washed sickly about his innards, and he rather felt like weeping, except that that would only embarrass him further.

  


"You shall leave for Imladris in two days' time," Denethor informed his son flatly. "I have already ordered preparations begun. Be you ready come the dawn of the fourth." There came a long and painful moment's silence, in which Boromir struggled to find a verbal response. Once or twice, he tried to articulate even a minimal 'yes sir' but nothing came out. It was as if he had been struck dumb, and he could not seem to recall how to form words, how to make his mouth and tongue and throat force the sounds out and shape them intelligibly.

  


At length, he heard a soft sigh, and felt a hand land upon his shoulder. After how badly Denethor had hurt him, he recoiled, though the touch was in truth remarkably gentle. In fact, he could not remember the last time his father had touched him like that. _Not since I was a child!_ some distant part of his mind replied. That might have been why he risked looking up, and as Denethor's storm-grey eyes captured his again, he was stunned by the tormented sympathy that shone there. Disappointment and a vast sea of anger for a world that had inflicted such a burden on both of them blazed there as well, but did not quite smother that glimmer of compassion. "I can do no more than send you away from the object of your desire, Boromir, and hope that distance shall do what I could not: sever the connection that binds the two of you," Denethor said softly. "Go! Redeem yourself if you can, and failing that, return to face Mordor with what pride you can muster." 

  


With that, Denethor rose silently. For a long moment, he stood gazing down at his son, and then swiftly he turned and left him. Boromir bit his lip so hard against his anguish that he tasted blood. At least the sting distracted him somewhat from the pain in other places, but nothing could pierce the shadow that had fallen on his heart. _Denethor too… and I called Faramir naïve! Redeem myself? How?_ Cursing softly, Boromir bowed his head and let the tears come. 

  


  


  



	10. Foundering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slash fic with a high angst content, now complete. The curious shall read, the others will blithely remain ignorant of even the 'pairing.' Nothing new added, merely posting cleaner copies of the chapters, as I've been meaning to do for awhile now.

_Why am I here?_ Faramir wondered as he listened to Mirhal argue against diverting strength to the south when the north was so very vulnerable. "We seek even now to rebuild three _garrisons_! What strength have we to send south, my lords?" the wiry councilor demanded. It was a good point, and ordinarily, Faramir would have supported it fully. Alas that the times were _extra_ ordinary, and it was only too evident that the same argument could be made to support Imrahil's plea for more assistance. For the Corsairs were not idle: Ithilien's scouts had reported the massing of their enemies in Umbar five years ago, and late last night, a messenger had come from the Prince of Dol Amroth bearing tidings of increased activity, coastal raids, and the possibility of a full-scale attack. The news was not wholly unexpected, for though periodic raids striking out from Pelargir and Dol Amroth had helped to delay the rebuilding of the fleet, there was now a considerable clutch of ships sitting in the Lord of Umbar's harbor and elsewhere. Were he the Haradric commander at Umbar, Faramir would hardly have hesitated to use those ships to harry Gondor and try to draw off strength from Minas Tirith or even Dol Amroth. _Alas that the current captain is similarly ambitious!_

  


As others weighed in with their opinions, Faramir sat in silence, mentally adding a tally mark each time he anticipated a councilor's position, and he wondered once again why he had been invited back to the council chambers. _After yesterday's argument, I was certain I would be barred from further sessions! But this morning Verethon roused me early to tell me I was needed here. Why?_ Faramir's jaw still ached somewhat from his father's crushing grip, tangible reminder of his outcast status, and he stared at the steward down the length of the table. Irresistibly, his eyes drifted to the empty seat at the steward's elbow, which was even more of an anomaly than his own presence. Boromir usually sat there, but today he was absent, and no one on the council had overlooked that monumental irregularity. Many a dark and worried glance had been cast at the steward, but Denethor had ignored them. 

  


To all appearances, the steward was his usual stern and somber self this morning, but to Faramir, there was something subtly wrong. Whatever it was, it did not diminish the steward's dominance of his own council; rather, it seemed to have made him even less tractable! Before ever the council had properly opened, Denethor's razor sharp glance had cut a brutal swath through the assembled lords, so that the arguments had been slow to start. Faramir, despite his reluctance to endure his father's regard, had actually been relieved to be the first to speak, for Ithilien's needs were uncontroversial and his report—precise, simple, and untroublesome—had helped to settle everyone's nerves a bit. The calm had not lasted, though—given the news, it was destined to be short-lived—and Faramir's mental tally slate was becoming quite crowded. With a soft sigh, he leaned forward to enter the debate.

  


"A point, if I may," he interjected into a heartbeat's silence as Mirhal drew breath. "We may be weak to the north, but each ship in that harbor shall cost us dear in the end. Pelargir is vulnerable. If Dol Amroth is pinned, it shall fall when our Enemy strikes. Levies from Ithilien and from Lebennin have joined Dol Amroth to harry the quays before, and we can do so again. We need not even field a large force, so long as we send archers enough to sink three or four vessels—fewer, even, if we catch some of them in the shallows. The wrecks will keep the others at harbor for some time, and a navy bottled in the Lord of Umbar's bay is no threat to Minas Tirith."

  


"Yet, my lord, you propose to move a large percentage of Ithilien's strength northwards. I do not see how you shall manage to find even so few as you speak of, since Imrahil reports that small raiders out of Umbar have slipped up Anduin and wreaked havoc among Lebennin's fisherfolk. And that would not stop those Corsairs not at dock from massing and attacking Dol Amroth itself," Mirhal replied. 

  


"I do not doubt that you are correct, councilor," Faramir responded, "But we stand at the fulcrum now, and to either side lie unpleasant consequences. The south shall suffer: we cannot change that, whatever our actions, so we must accept it. But we may at least help ourselves in the north, and give Imrahil a few fewer ships to face should the Corsairs turn on him."

  


"But such a move does but postpone the hour," Mirhal sighed. "As they have before, they shall clear the waters and come again. And I am not convinced a small force could prevail against such strength as Imrahil reports. The Corsairs are grown strong, they have erected barriers and manned watch towers around the harbor. If we do not strike with force, we risk losing all."

  


"Even if we do strike with force, we may lose all. But I believe that this could be accomplished, for we have succeeded against their defenses before," Faramir argued and carefully did not mention any precise dates or the name of the captain responsible for that victory. All knew never to mention Thorongil in Denethor's presence. "If we knew the hour of the Dark Lord's offensive, we might launch a raid just prior to it in the hopes of holding the fleet out of any confrontation, but we possess no such knowledge. Yet the Corsairs remain a significant threat, and though the cost may be high, we can at least mitigate it for the moment. We should not dismiss the possibility of attacking them out of hand, my lords." Faramir glanced at each man, gauging the reaction. Of the lot, he had the most recent military experience against the Corsairs, and he judged that about half of the council was inclined to follow his advice. The other half wavered, or else were opposed. Faramir made a swift decision then, and said in a low, grave voice, "Well do I know the gravity of perhaps committing men who shall go into battle knowing that they are a sacrifice. Yet I have done it; Boromir has done it, and because of this, we hold still the western bank of Osgiliath. It is ever a risk to make use of such tactics, but have we another choice? We cannot allow the Corsairs to remain unmolested, or we risk giving them free reign in the future, when we are engaged elsewhere and can do nothing to halt their advance." Mirhal met his eyes, and the two gazed at each other long, but Faramir could feel the other's resolve disintegrating….

  


"I still say that it is too risky, my lord captain," Mirhal made a last effort, and a little further down the table, Torost gave an exasperated sigh. 

  


"Can you not see that risk becomes relative in such straits as these?" Torost demanded, and the argument was off again. Faramir, having made the best case that he could for a bad situation, sighed inwardly and sank back down into his seat to listen. _And think! Well that the council attends to its business, however fractious, rather than hang their differences upon personal matters, but I, for one, would know where my brother is now._ It was quite clear that no one, save Denethor, had anticipated his absence, and ordinarily— _ah, that word again!_ —questions would have arisen instantly. Yet before the threat of the steward's eyes, no one dared Denethor's wrath by pushing him to speak ere he was willing to do so. The councilors had seen enough tension the day before, and were unwilling to suffer a repetition.

  


_Besides, this could mean little,_ Faramir reminded himself. _Denethor might have had an errand for Boromir, one that he does not feel the rest of us need know of yet. There could be a perfectly rational explanation for his silence and Boromir's absence._ Mirhal was arguing now in earnest with Lord Torost, and Lord Geldan had the look of one who fought to hold his tongue; Húrin of the Keys leaned his head against his hand and waited for the explosion to come; and others were watching with the sort of fascinated dread that comes sometimes to those who stand powerlessly watching a disaster unfold. Faramir sat back in his seat and watched Denethor, who sat perfectly still save for the tapping of one finger upon the table top. _Tap… tap… tap_ …. Seconds unwound in accordance with that slight, slow movement. _There is a logical reason for my brother's absence…. And if I believed a word of that, I would look to see Eärnur himself return from Minas Morgul!_

  


"Enough!" Denethor's voice instantly silenced the interlocutors, and Mirhal and Torost flinched slightly at the reproof in the steward's tone. "Imrahil's request shall be declined. Dol Amroth is well-defended and easily defensible even by a small force. The coastlands are more sparsely populated between that fortress and Anduin in any case, and if we must lose support against the Nameless Enemy, then let it be from that area rather than from Belfalas. And although some here would willingly risk a company entire—" Denethor pinned Faramir under his gaze a moment ere he continued "—we cannot afford an additional loss so soon after Osgiliath and Cair Andros." Faramir stared back at his father, and felt a knot forming in his stomach. 

  


_He has just made a mistake!_ Faramir was as certain of it as he had ever been of anything in his life. Worse, he could find no real reason for Denethor's apparent refusal to recognize the threat he was leaving to breed in peace. Granted the decision was a hard one—Faramir certainly did not relish the prospect of ordering or leading a battle that would almost certainly require a sacrificial unit—but in the end, the Corsairs would damage their own defense on so many levels it scarcely bore thinking on. But one did not argue that particular tone of voice, and though a part of his mind screamed that he had to say something, he simply bowed his head in acceptance of his liege-lord's decision. _Mayhap if I had not crossed the line yesterday, I would argue harder today,_ Faramir thought guiltily. But he would not. Not now, and not until he knew what it was that had the steward on edge this morning. _And where Boromir is!_

  


With an inward sigh, Faramir reconsidered the possible reasons for Boromir's absence, listening with but half an ear to his father's closing speech. Amid the defeats of the session, it was actually a minor victory in itself that his concentration was focused enough to permit him to follow the trend of his father's conclusions while entertaining other considerations simultaneously. After Osgiliath, he had been at the mercy of that rhyme, to the detriment of his ability to efficiently and effectively concentrate on aught else. But ever since Denethor had learned of the dream, its power over Faramir seemed to have been broken: he could sleep at night, and sleep deeply he did as his body and mind sought to make up for lost time.

  


_Perhaps it needed but the attention of the right person,_ he thought. Mulling over that possibility, he decided it was not without merit. _If so, then I ought to have brought the problem to Denethor immediately. But fear undermines judgement, and so also do pride and resentment,_ he admitted, and tasted the irony as bitter on his tongue. _How much of my misery was of my own crafting, being due to my inability to trust my father with one of my dreams? 'My' dreams… Boromir has proved the lie of that notion! In the end, what am I to a dream? I am nothing—only a convenient vessel, but the jar that holds the water may believe itself to be far more, for is the water not in it? Is the dream not in the dreamer? It is so hard to let go of what feels so very personal! I ought to thank Boromir for seeing the truth of the matter, and for doing what I could not bring myself to do. Perhaps it is because he has never dreamt thus, and feels no attachment to such visions that he could entertain the notion of going to Father with it._

  


"If there are no further comments, then this council is closed," Denethor said then, and to the sounds of chairs scraping on flagstone, Faramir rose with the rest. Singly or in pairs, the councilors began to file out, but Faramir hesitated a moment. The steward was organizing his notes and the reports and dispatches that had been brought in that morning or last night, seeming quite intent upon the task. _I would ask him about Boromir…._ Faramir pursed his lips slightly, on the edge of speaking. But in the end, he turned and left in silence, sensing that Denethor was in no mood to tolerate unwanted company. _If Boromir had some errand to perform, I shall likely see him soon enough,_ he reasoned. To which the skeptic in him replied, _If! You do not believe that, surely? You know perfectly well why you hesitated: if the steward's temper is so foul and Boromir is missing, then they must have argued._ And if it were an argument serious enough to banish Boromir from this morning's session, then Faramir, much to his shame, simply could not face Denethor with his questions.

  


But if he could not bring himself to turn about and retrace his steps to a second confrontation, he could at least see to other responsibilities and so not wholly waste the time given him. For he had still a number of men with whom he wished to speak before he set them on the route to Ithilien, for he had always felt it best to know something of those new to the company. Besides, this was no ordinary reassignment, and given the enormity of the task ahead of them all, he would vastly prefer to learn now the mettle of those who would share the burden and responsibility of maintaining Ithlien's borders. The sun was drifting towards eleven o'clock as Faramir stepped out of the tower and began the trek down to the lower circles of the city. 

  


And as he walked, he kept an eye out for sign of his brother, though he would have been hard pressed to say what he would have done had he seen him. It had been hard enough to knock on his door last night, and harder still to leave on such poor terms. But the note of almost painful hope and apology in Boromir's voice had been too much for him to bear. He had felt his heart speed and nervous energy skitter instantly down every nerve, and that he had not backed away but turned away had seemed a miracle at the time. _And what shall I do if he sees me and seeks me out? Thus far, he has let me come to him, and for that I am grateful. But soon enough, he shall try to call me to him, and I know not what I shall do then!_ He hoped that he would not run, or freeze, or shut down inside, all of which seemed equally plausible possibilities at the moment. 

  


His response would depend, he decided, upon the level of need that Boromir displayed. A chance encounter that had no object, or else one born of some military or political matter, would be bearable. _But if he has argued with Father, then have I the courage to face my brother? Or has fear crippled my capacity to care for him when most he needs it?_ For that matter, he could not be certain that Boromir would approach him in that context, for his brother was not one to share his troubles lightly. Ever the captain and warrior, Boromir hesitated to show weakness or pain to any, even to Faramir; rather, he was accustomed to support others in time of need. Which meant only that if he did seek Faramir out to discuss what had passed between himself and the steward, it would be a serious matter indeed, and demand the most delicate handling on Faramir's part. _Square your shoulders, Faramir! He is your brother, and in truth he never asked of you aught else than what once you gave willingly!_

  


The gates of the Fourth Circle loomed before him, and he easily slipped out into the lower circle. But on the other side of the gates there was a large crowd seeking admittance to the fifth level, for today was a market day, and many were the merchants seeking a way to avoid a heavier tax by selling in the Fifth Circle. Turgon it was who had come up with the idea of staggering the taxes according to the level of the city. The first level had the lowest levy, but also no formal market area, which almost forced merchants to the second level and a second set of taxes. The more valuable the goods, the higher up into the city one had to go to sell them, and the Sixth Circle had the most expensive market in Minas Tirith. It differed little in terms of available goods, but it was up to the warden at the fifth gate to determine which level a merchant could sell in. 

  


Unsurprisingly, the merchants argued vociferously for the fifth level rather than be passed on to the last set of inspectors, even though selling one or two items in the sixth circle might very well cover the cost of the so-called "gate tax," but it was a risk to try to sell to the lords of the city on an open market. Faramir knew the wardens of the gates, and they were all of them honest men who made an effort to direct the merchants to their proper level; but though he knew this, and also how badly Minas Tirith needed the money, the system tended to sit somewhat ill with him. 

  


It also, he reflected as he slithered between a pair of pack animals, made it difficult to avoid the crush. Glancing about, he spotted a secondary street which was less crowded and went in the direction he wanted to go, and so he made for it as quickly as he could. Reviewing in his mind the points he wanted to make before those who would likely precede him to Ithilien, he did not notice in time the flash of movement as he rounded the corner, and there came a startled yelp as he collided with someone. Someone much shorter than himself, he realized with a quick flash of chagrin for his carelessness as he reached out to steady the boy who rocked back from him. The lad looked to be nine or ten, with a mop of dark hair that curled over his ears and a pair of large, dark eyes that stared up at him in surprised embarrassment. Skinny, awkward, and apparently undamaged by their encounter, save for his ego, Faramir judged. Still, he asked, "Are you all right, lad?"

  


"Y-yes my lord," the boy replied, blushing darkly. "I meant no offense!" he added quickly.

  


"Of course not," Faramir reassured him, glancing about. "I see few children so high in the city. Where is your father?" If the boy were some merchant's son, it might take some doing to see him reunited with his family, but he would not see a child lost in the warren of Minas Tirith's streets and gates. 

  


"Um… not far, my lord," the lad replied somewhat nervously. "But I can find him. You need not stay, sir." 

  


That drew a sharp look from Faramir. "What mischief have you got into, son?"

  


"Naught! Truly, my lord! I only wanted to come and see him…."

  


"See who?"

  


"My father," the boy explained, warming to the subject rather endearingly. "He's up there somewhere—" he pointed toward the gate leading to the Fifth Circle "—and I thought… with everyone coming in…."

  


"You thought to slip in with them, is that it?"

  


"Yes, my lord," the child hung his head, but Faramir suppressed a grin as he caught the boy trying to roll his eyes upward so he could stare without seeming to do so. 

  


"And what is your father?"

  


"A guard, sir!" 

  


"I see. Well," Faramir glanced back at the throng of merchants once more, "I fear you shall not get past Nardistan if you know not the password. What shift has your father? Or do you know?"

  


"He left ere dawn, my lord, to come up here."

  


Which meant that he would shortly take his midday break, Faramir thought, and quirked a brow at the lad, who gazed back hopefully. _I have enough chores for three men, and here I stand!_ he thought, with a slight shake of his head. But he had decided, and so he kept a firm grip on the boy's shoulder and tugged him before him, walking him back up towards the gate. "Come then, for you shall need an escort." Together, they made their way back up to the gate, and as they approached, Nardistan, the warden straightened, darting a somewhat puzzled look from the boy to Faramir and back again. 

  


"My lord?" the warden asked as they approached. "And what has this imp done now?"

  


"You know him, then?" Faramir asked, and glanced down at the boy. 

  


"Aye, he has been up here a few times today, my lord, trying to get in. Rascal!" Nardistan replied, though to Faramir's mind, there was rather less malice than simple exasperation in the man's tone. "That is Beregond's son."

  


"And when does Beregond's relief arrive?"

  


"Just now, I should think," Nardistan replied, then called over Faramir's shoulder, "Ah, no sir, that will not do! Back in line, and let the inspectors do their job! Sorry, my lord," the warden added. 

  


"Will you let us through at least, so as not to take more of your time?"

  


"Well… since you will vouch for him, my lord, I suppose I may," the man said, gesturing for two men to clear the way a bit, and Faramir escorted the lad through the cavernous entryway. "Beregond ought to be along shortly, my lord! Third Company guardsman!" Nardistan called after the pair. 

  


Faramir raised a hand in acknowledgment and quickly hustled the lad to the side, where they would present no obstacle to the flow of traffic. "Rascal, are you?" he asked, smiling as the boy blushed again. "Well, since you are here on my honor, I trust you shall not abuse it, hmm?"

  


"Of course not, my lord! And thank you for letting me in! The warden does not trust me."

  


"He does but his duty, lad. You ought to know that children are not permitted to come so high without an elder."

  


"I would never bother anyone…."

  


"Bergil!" a voice called out, and both Faramir and the boy turned toward it. A guardsman came swiftly towards them, an expression of mixed astonishment, fondness, and exasperation on his face. "Why have you come? More, how came you to pass the gates?"

  


"He brought me in, Father," Bergil replied, indicating Faramir. Beregond raised his eyes to search Faramir's face, and he blinked in wonder, then quickly bowed. 

  


"My lord, I am sorry if he troubled you! I did not think that he would ask—"

  


"He did not, so you need not apologize," Faramir replied. "He seems an honest enough child, for all that he dares Nardistan's displeasure at the gates." Beregond gave a slight smile at that, shaking his head. 

  


"He is at that!" the other said with the glow of quiet pride in his son, and Faramir glanced at Bergil as the boy grinned and leaned against his father. "Well, my lord, I shall see to him now."

  


"How came he all this way, if I may ask?" Faramir asked, curious.

  


"Well, he has a good instinct for escaping his keepers, for none are his mother. My wife…last year, she…." Beregond paused, and instantly, Faramir regretted his question.

  


"I am sorry," he murmured, laying a hand on the other's shoulder. "Forgive me, I should not have asked." Beregond only shrugged a bit and with an effort, tucked his pain away once more, covering the last traces of it with a brief smile as he draped an arm about Bergil's shoulders. 

  


"We should not take any more of your time, my lord Faramir," Beregond suggested, and the steward's son gave a smile and nodded for the truth of that statement. "Thank you for seeing him through that mess."

  


"Yes, thank you, my lord!" a wide-eyed Bergil added quickly. 

  


"Come then, let us go. Good day to you, captain!" With his arm still about Bergil's shoulders, Beregond quickly guided his son away down the street, leaving Faramir to watch after them. Bergil was already chattering excitedly, and his father laughed at something, reaching down to tousle the boy's hair. Faramir sighed softly. Born to privilege and instilled with a deep sense of responsibility, he admitted that he was largely content with his lot, in spite of the pains and trials. He therefore envied few men, but by the Valar, he felt almost jealous of Bergil in that instant! Watching Beregond's easy manner with his son, he was very much aware of what he had lacked as a child, and it was hard not to compare that affection with Denethor's distance and isolation.

  


_Come, Faramir, you have work to do,_ he reminded himself, tearing his eyes away from the retreating pair. Once more, he made his way down, through the gates, down the alleyways, seeking a way down to the Third Circle. At each gate, there was a crowd and he wound up taking a rather circuitous route to avoid them. Still, he did not curse the longer walk, for Faramir never tired of exploring (and re-exploring) the ways of the ancient city. _Were it not for Father, I would have been reluctant ever to leave these walls, even for fair Ithilien._

  


Just at that moment, he registered a figure on the periphery of his vision… a very familiar figure. "Boromir!" His brother jerked at the sound of his name, glancing over his shoulder out of reflex. For a split second, the brothers stared at each other, and the passers-by who wandered heedless between them, intent upon their own business, seemed as ghosts—insubstantial and powerless to break the spell that held both men transfixed. But then Boromir shook himself and turned away, quickly following the crowd that moved up towards the gates. Faramir hesitated only a moment before he abandoned his task to follow him. For in that brief contact, he had felt a horror twist within him as he saw the leaden look in his brother's eyes, as if the spark of life had been extinguished. _Valar help me, what happened between those two?_ Had he had any doubts as to the reason behind Boromir's absence in council, they were quelled in that instant's regard: Denethor and Boromir had done more than argue. And despite his earlier reflections, despite his own agonized misgivings and fears, Faramir refused to let his brother suffer alone. _Not when I know too well what it feels like to bear Denethor's scorn!_

  


Dodging through the stream of people, Faramir kept Boromir ever in his sight, though it was clear that his brother sought to lose him, pressing on at a terrific pace. But Faramir had spent years tracking foes with the best foresters Gondor had to offer, and he clung to the other's trail like a hound on the hunt, gaining slowly but steadily. Ever and anon, Denethor's elder son would glance back to mark his adversary, but that dulled, lifeless look did not dissipate, which only spurred Faramir onward. Boromir turned a corner, and Faramir cursed, knowing whither his brother went. The market square of the Third Circle opened broad off the end of the street, and Faramir stood a moment, trying to get his bearings amid the influx of people. 

  


_Have I lost him?_ Ithlien's captain took a hesitant step forward, glancing right, then quickly left, then back again in a slow scan of the area. Boromir and he both had the height of their forebears, though Boromir had a few inches on him, so it ought not to be so difficult to spot him in crowd. But then again, Gondor's citizens also had Númenórean blood in them, and in the sea of faces, even Boromir might not stand out immediately. _Steady, Faramir! Do not lose your discipline now. He is here… somewhere. Where could he go? He has no business here, save to lose me. There are six ways out, and I bar one of them._ The square was crossed by one major carrefour, and a lesser street as well. _Boromir seemed to wish to go higher, and if he takes the downward path, he shall have a long walk back…._ Faramir began pushing through the throng towards the ascending side of Rath Celebdar, the lesser street. The distance was not too great, and as he cleared the crowd at last, he was just in time to catch sight of the hem of a cloak as someone turned left into an alleyway. 

  


With a soft oath, Faramir abandoned dignity and sprinted the distance to come skidding round the corner. "Boromir!" The tall figure halfway up the narrow street stopped at last and tension seemed to ripple through his frame. When Faramir was perhaps five feet away, Boromir turned at last, meeting his brother's concerned gaze with a certain defiance that yet reeked of defeat and anger. The younger man cocked his head, slowing his advance noticeably, for something in the other's manner warned him not to approach too recklessly. _As one does not approach an injured creature lightly!_ The comparison was unavoidable, and Faramir sucked in a breath at the hunted wariness in the other's gaze. "We missed you in council this morning," he offered carefully. 

  


"Father did not," Boromir replied stiffly. "And I doubt that you did either."

  


"What happened?" Faramir asked, choosing to ignore the rebuff. 

  


"Give it some thought, brother, and I doubt not you shall be able to tell me in such detail that I shall believe you were present!" Boromir snapped rather bitterly, and turned away, making as if to continue on his way. Which was when Faramir's caution abandoned him, and he reached out and caught his brother's arm to restrain him. 

  


With a low growl, Boromir broke his brother's grip and pulled away with hardly a pause. "Leave me be, Faramir!" he tossed back over his shoulder, sounding at once sharply angry, anguished, and weary beyond belief. Swiftly, he cut down the alleyway as it turned back to a main thoroughfare. Faramir, stunned, stood stock still and watched as his older brother, with a toss of his head, squared his shoulders and rejoined the crowd on the streets. Not another word from him, and though he likely seemed still the proud, determined prince to any who looked upon him, Faramir ached for the hollowness that lay behind that mask. _What under Varda's skies did Fath-Denethor say to him?_ And though at the moment Faramir felt almost physically compelled to run after Boromir, he made himself remain where he was, recognizing the other's need for time and privacy. 

  


_Later,_ he promised himself. _Later I shall go to him. Let him recover himself a bit ere he is forced to deal with another, and especially me!_ In the mean time, he had his chores—duties to Gondor that must always come before any personal relationship. With an effort of will, he returned to the market square and began to make his way across it, letting the buffeting of the crowd against him jar him out of his dazed state. _'Tis better thus,_ he reasoned, drawing a deep breath. _I need time as well, or I fear I shall be more of a hindrance than a help. Valar help us both! Until tonight, Boromir!_ he thought, sending that vow out into the void, and hoping that somehow, his brother would hear it.

  



	11. My Brother's Keeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slash fic with a high angst content, now complete. The curious shall read, the others will blithely remain ignorant of even the 'pairing.' Nothing new added, merely posting cleaner copies of the chapters, as I've been meaning to do for awhile now.

 

  


Boromir set the book down on the tableslammed it down, really, and was angry with his own lack of control. After Denethor had left him to his misery last night, he had needed hours to crawl and grope his way back to something approaching composure. His dreams had been predictably horrific, though he remembered little of them, save waking to a feeling of stark terror and a racing pulse. The morning had seen him excluded from councilVerethon had told him the steward wanted him to see to his own preparations for the journey, and while Boromir had been relieved that he would not have to face the tension of the council, the dismissal had hurt. After that inauspicious start, the day had deteriorated from there. Everythingfrom the obvious worry that hung wraith-like over the city to the most minor and niggling details of mundanitygrated upon his already strained nerves 'til the very fabric of existence seemed a vast and intricate machine with but one purpose: to torture him. To run hither and thither, overseeing on the one hand the preparations his father had set in motion, and on the other the responsibilities that he would have to leave to others, had frustrated him beyond belief, and the ream of correspondence that he had then had to write in order to be certain that all went as required as concerned Osgiliath had stretched his patience dangerously thin. And for all that he knew it was absurd, he could not help but feel that every person he encountered somehow knew his secret, and he had had to fight the urge to flinch each time he met another's eyes. He wanted to scream at the ghost-self he had become, wanted to vomit, to purge this world from his being, but he could not be rid of himself. Considering the violence of those feelings, that he had managed to get through the day at all without exploding was a triumph of self-discipline, but Boromir felt no satisfaction at the victory. _What does it matter, when discipline cannot dictate what I feel in my very blood whenever I see Faramir?_

  


For all his agonized self-loathing, Boromir, like most men in his circumstances, had managed to achieve a truce with himself long ago, else he would have been driven mad. And though the most recent crisis with Faramir had come dangerously close to sending him plummeting back down into the abyss of doubt and panic that had claimed him when first he realized the ways of his heart, he had slowly begun to come to terms with the changed situation. Faramir's anxieties and newfound wariness of him, his painful and abortive overturesall of these things might hurt, but Boromir had been learning to accept them, and to begin to hope for a new (and more honest) peace between himself and his brother. But Denethor had shattered that fragile self-reconciliation, leaving him adrift in agonized doubt. His father's ruthless denunciation, even if carried out in private, had rubbed his face in the shamefulness of his desire, exposing him at last to the direct and unrelenting scorn that homosexuality woke in most others. For the first time, he had been forced to look his lust in the face and truly _see_ it, rather than allowing it to pass as felt but unexamined and suppressed in his daily life. And he had been disgusted but even disgust could not break him from the grip of his own passions. In the end, Denethor's impassioned tirade had done naught to ease either his love or his lust for his brother; rather, it seemed almost to have inflamed it. _Why that should be, I know not! Perversity, perhaps, and have I ever fully appreciated the difference between "pervert" and "perverse" before? People look to me for strength, for leadership in time of war, but none know the rot that lies beneath, save two! I have no choice but to continue the path that I have always walked, and pretend that I have still pride enough to carry a city, but I know better! I know better, and still I hate myself for such doubt!_

  


With the weight of such humiliation, of such profound self-alienation, riding on his shoulders, it was therefore little surprise that his temper was orc-foul, and evidently so in spite of his efforts to disguise it. Those whom he had encountered as he went about the necessary tasks to prepare for a long journey had sensed his mood and walked on eggshells around him, which did nothing to help him. Not that he would have accepted any offers of help, for it simply was not in his nature to speak his pain to others. _But pain has never cut like this before!_ He had suffered injury to within an inch of his life against the Haradrim, seen comrades and friends die screaming on the battlefield, and had had to hold a child amid the bloody wreckage of her village. _I lied to her,_ he remembered. _I told her she was safe, that she would one day see her parents again. And Valar help me, I laid her down in death when she bled out in my arms._ That had been one of the worst days he had ever endured, and he had never thought to see it surpassed unless (or until) Minas Tirith and Gondor fell to Mordor. _But that was before I saw the look in Faramir's eyes when he learned the truth of what I felt for him under the guise of brotherly love. And before I learned the truth of Father's dislike of Faramirbefore I learned how very much my father's son I am!_ Boromir bowed his head and probed at the sore spot in his mouth where he had bitten through his lip the night before. Salty warmth spilled over his tongue and he grimaced again as he made himself return to the task of packing. 

  


In truth, save for one or two things, he had nearly everything he would need, and was in fact simply shifting items about: from table to desk to shelf, from shelf to chest to bed, and from bed to backpack or saddlebags, and the process repeated itself with some variations and in reverse just to keep his mind occupied. He could not justify taking Silvaríel with him, but he was not quite certain what to do with the book. His esquire would return it to he library, but for some reason, Boromir could not seem to decide where to leave it so that the lad would see it and realize what to do with it. _This is ridiculous!_ he told himself, even as he turned back to rummaging pointlessly in one of the saddlebags. 

  


"You leave tomorrow, I hear," a voice from behind him startled him badly, and Boromir rounded on the intruder fiercely even though he immediately identified him. Faramir, however, gazed back without flinching from the doorway, where he leaned against hands braced to either side of the doorframe. "I hope you did not think to present me with another _fait accompli,_ Boromir." _He must have come in only recently, for I was just in the antechamber. Curse it all, I did not hear the doors!_

  


"You might have knocked," Boromir replied rather huffily, reluctant to begin a conversation that could have but one object. More, in light of his newly reborn shame, he feared the possibility of reconciliation. _Better for us both if Faramir is kept at a distance. I should never have encouraged him to try to settle matters between us; I should have let him drift away!_ Never mind that it would have broken his heart to do so, for there were worse things than even a soul in torment, after all. _Surely there are!_

  


"I might have," Faramir admitted easily, and quirked a skeptical brow at him. "Had I thought you would answer, I might well have knocked."

  


"Well, we shall never learn now what I might have done, shall we?" Boromir shot back, deliberately echoing his brother's condemnation earlier that week. 

  


"As to that, perhaps it is better thus. Certainly yourdiscretion helped me in the end," Faramir replied, adroitly turning that bitter jibe against itself, transforming it into something positive. And although Boromir silently cursed his brother's quick mind and glib tongue, he could not help but feel a certain relief to learn that Faramir had apparently made peace with Boromir's rather underhanded dealings. "Have you any plan at all to find Imladris?"

  


"What matter is it to you? Denethor gave me the task and the time table," Boromir grunted, turning back to his imaginary packing in order to spare himself the sight of his brother. Standing there against the light that spilled in from the other room, his brother's slender, wiry form was all too clearly silhouetted, and Boromir felt his jaw muscles ache from constantly gritting his teeth. For if he had always been ashamed of his too-interested love of Faramir, never before had he blamed his brother for the temptation he presented. _Although if I am honest, I suppose I still do not blame him. But if he did not exist, would I even know what I am? Would I know the depths of my own twisted nature?_ And unbidden, Denethor's voice replied in his mind: _Blood always tells!_ So perhaps it would not have mattered, and he would have fixed upon another, but his heart scoffed at the very notion even as it bled for wanting. 

  


"So I perceive, and a few discreet inquiries revealed the hour of your departure, even," Faramir replied, pausing ere he added significantly, "I could wish that others would trust me more, for I had a difficult time convincing anyone to speak with me on the matter." A pause, then, "Family most of all." Another pause, but as Boromir did not leap to fill the conversational void, Faramir, after a few moments, continued, "What did Denethor do to you, Boromir?" And this time, Boromir stiffened, pausing for just that split second too long. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and struggled for composure as he finished tying his bags shut by feel alone. Then, slowly, he straightened and considered what answer he might make. It was not an easy task, for Faramir's presence proved a disturbing distraction. He could feel his brother's intensity, feel the gravity of his concern and anger all along his body. It was like heat, like sunlight, and when Faramir shifted positions, he felt it, as if they were somehow connected across the space between them. "You cannot keep this within you, Boromir. Or have you forgotten your own words? Some secrets can kill, and I do not doubt that this is one of them."

  


"Why then, should I expose you to it?" Boromir demanded, turning once more as he changed tactics somewhat, striving (and failing, he suspected) for a reasonable tone. _If anger and resentment do not drive him forth, let us try logic such as it is!_

  


"Because," Faramir replied, letting his arms drop to his sides as he moved out of the doorway, approaching slowly. And now it was his turn to turn Boromir's words back against their author, "I am your brother, and whatever has happened between us, I cannot see you suffer like this!"

  


"Sometimes pain is deserved," Boromir growled automatically, and instantly regretted the rejoinder, for his brother's eyes narrowed as he ran through the implications of that statement. 

  


"Sometimes it is," the other agreed. "But not always, and there comes a point when even good intentions cannot justify inflicting it on another. One does not punish orcs, after all, for they are irredeemable; neither should a father break his child's bones for a broken tea cup. Whereby does such harshness profit either child or family?"

  


"You draw a false comparison," Boromir grated. 

  


"And you speak now but to counter me. You believe your own words not at all, and were I to tell you that it was summer, you would say it was winter," Faramir responded. 

  


"Those were games we played as children, Faramir!" Boromir retorted, trying desperately to displace the focus of this conversation even a little. Alas, Faramir was not one to be led astray by a false trail.

  


"And as a child, you used to trust me better. I know that I have given you little reason to think that I trust you still, but believe that I do. In this moment, I do, and I would have that faith returned!" His brother spoke in a low, urgent voice, his advance bringing him well within arm's reach, and Boromir felt his defenses beginning to succumb to sheer proximity if naught else. "Will you not speak to me about this? What said our father to you that has changed you so?"

  


"Faramir!" the older man half-groaned, exasperated on the one hand, but also suddenly fearful. Fearful of _what_ , precisely, he was not certainof being too close to the other, of hoping too much, of disappointment, of having been seen as vulnerable. Perhaps he feared himself, and certainly he feared to reveal what Denethor had said and done last night. _For whatever else he is, Denethor is still our father and lord. Faramir must never come to lose his respect for the steward of the city, even if he fears and despises him as a father!_ Boromir glared at the other, hoping that that clear sign of displeasure would convince his brother to leave off questioning. Faramir stood his ground, though, with worried grey eyes fixed upon Boromir's face. His brother laid a hand upon his shoulder, gripping firmly in a gesture of comfort as well as encouragement, and Boromir sucked in a surprised breath. 

  


"Will you not speak?"

  


"No," Boromir replied with as much force as he could muster. 

  


"You will never be rid of me," Faramir said with quiet certainty. "I told you that once, but I would have you believe it this time."

  


"Valar help me! Faramir, this does not concern you!" Boromir said desperately.

  


"Insofar as my brother is the heir to the stewardship, and my father is the steward of the realm, what troubles you _is_ my concern, as a captain of Gondor if nothing else!" Before which statement Boromir flinched somewhat, unsettled by how closely Faramir's reasoning echoed Denethor'sbut to such different purpose! Faramir now grabbed him by the shoulders and gave him a slight shake as if to try to jar him out of his silence. "I know Father's ways better than any other in matters of his displeasure. Can you deny that he cut deeply, or that he abuses the power that he has over you?"

  


"I think you do not understand," Boromir hissed, closing his eyes once more, struggling against himself. The frightened, crippled part of him that bore the imprint of Denethor's handling violently resisted speech. But the part that could not for all the world lose Faramir's affection entirelyespecially when he knew what Faramir must be enduring to stand before him thuscried out for release, craving what comfort a confession might bring. "I have not the words for this, even if I wished."

  


"Try, Boromir," the other insisted. _Curse it all!_ And honestly, he did try, for as he had realized long ago, it was not in him to refuse his brother anything, save only what he deemed harmful to him. _As this is!_ But such was the tone of the other's voice and his own need that for a moment, he nearly overcame the almost atavistic terror that washed through him.

  
__

Almost. "I cannot!" he finally managed. "I may not!"

  


Faramir's mouth tightened, and he took a step backward, releasing his brother then; and Boromir winced in spite of himself, feeling abandoned, though he supposed he ought to rejoice if that refusal had alienated his brother so. _Mayhap he shall now leave !_ But his brother remained, watching him, and after awhile, Faramir sighed softly as he dropped his eyes. Glancing about, as if in search of inspiration, Faramir crossed the short distance to the window by the bed and gazed out at the night. Boromir folded his arms across his chest, as if to hold a confession in, and he listened as Faramir's voice drifted gently but seriously from the window embrasure. "Well, if you will say naught, let me be your tongue for a time, as you suggested earlier today. I have given much thought to this matter since last we spoke, so tell me when I begin to stray." Faramir drew a deep breath, seeming to gird himself for the effort, and Boromir listened in silence as his brother's words fell hard upon his ears. "Denethor knows the truth of your that you are from the other river bank, as they say," the other hedged euphemistically, but Boromir still flinched to hear it come frankly from his brother's lips. "I know not for how long, but let us say that he suspected you long before I did. Speak if I stray!" Faramir interrupted himself to glance sharply at Boromir.

  


"Go on," Boromir said quietly, in a subdued manner, unwilling to tell his brother that Denethor had suspected Faramir for far longer than he had ever doubted Boromir. _Besides, he is right in the main: whether for long or for short, Father knew the truth without ever having to ask. I suppose like recognizes like when forced to it._

  


"What he might have said to you, I can only guess, but I know well what it is to be flayed by his words. It used to destroy me each time I had to face him, and it costs me much still to resist collapse, even after many years of practice. Sometimes I have not the strength, even as I lacked it this morning in council, and afterwards when I could not approach Denethor." Faramir's voice grew harder at that, and Boromir could hear the self-contempt in it ere his brother took another breath to calm himself. When he had regained a measure of control, he continued, "You who have had his love could not stand before him, and I doubt not that he sought to break you." Faramir glanced at him over his shoulder, and there was much sympathy in his face as he said softly, "That much I read from your manner, and yet I cannot say whether he succeeded. This afternoon, you struck me as much changed. How badly are you hurt?" And with that question, the pressure of those eyes, at once similar and utterly dissimilar to his father's, mounted, and grew almost unbearable. Boromir felt his breathing catch slightly, as if the other probed an injury, feeling for the point that would cause him to cry out in pain. "Did he break you, Boromir?" 

  


"I." Denethor's elder son felt his tongue cleave to the roof of his mouth as he struggled with himself to remain silent. But Faramir would not let him go, and as his brother turned from the window and slowly advanced once more, a number of conflicting emotions rose up in response, boiling about the wounded part of his soul. On the one hand, he desperately wanted to keep his secrets, and there was no small anger directed at Faramir for pushing him so hard; on the other, he knew that his brother was right, that he could not hold this within himself. _Not all of it at least!_ Between the two extremes, Boromir felt torn, and could not seem to decide whether there was enough of himself left to even answer Faramir's question. 

  


"Did he, brother?" 

  


"Faramir, do not torture me thus, curse you!" Boromir snarled, alarmed by the pleading in his tone, for it cost him much to beg and even more to curse his brother.

  


"Then answer me, and thereby end this inquisition," Faramir replied, refusing to allow him to escape. And when he still said naught, his brother frowned, and a sort of dread seemed to creep into his lancing regard. "Boromir?"

  


"He said I must redeem myself!" The words came out flatly, harshly, and all in a rush, as if some limit had been reached and breached with but the speaking of his name. Boromir closed his eyes against the chaotic surge of emotion, and felt himself swept away by the current of his own anguish. "For all that I know, he has known for years, and waited for me to weaken enough." He broke off, unable to finish. Shaking his head violently as if to rid himself of the memory, he demanded bitterly, "What more is there to say? You have wondered why he despised you so? To dissuade me from loving you, I think, for he saw too clearly where my heart lay! _That_ is why he chose me to find Imladris, and not you. It is not for any logic that you or I might present him, but to part us. To give me a chance at redemption a chance to forget you!" 

  


"And did he persuade you in that?" Faramir asked urgently, once more gripping his brother's shoulders, unable to refrain from the gesture for he sensed the other's need of support. 

  


Boromir swallowed hard as everything seemed to come to a head. He stared wordlessly at Faramir for a long moment, at a face and spirit he had loved all the days of his life in one fashion or another. And he wondered, _Why are you so close in this moment, and yet so far? Do you even know the pain your touch, so innocent of all harmful intention, can cause?_ Deliberately, he caught his brother's hands in his and drew them from his shoulders, squeezing tightly, as he replied wearily, "No to my shame, no he could not!" 

  


Something like a smile tugged at Faramir's lips and he nodded slowly. "Then you remain Boromir. After what I saw today, I feared it might be otherwise."

  


"You surprise me," Boromir replied, searching his brother's face for sign of wavering and finding none. "I doubt not that your words are kindly meant, but Faramir, can you speak them without pain?" Boromir demanded. "Would you not wish that I not look to you?"

  


"I would not have you turn away at least. Boromir, you know that I cannot love you as you would wish," his brother replied. "But neither can I abandon you; for even as I cannot dictate your heart, I ought not to let your love dictate my own."

  


"As simple as that?"

  


"As simple as that, and the more complicated for being so simple!" At which, Boromir gave an exaggerated sigh and shook his head, and the slight smile that curved his lips was a real one, for all that the pain remained.

  


"Your logic, as always, remains impenetrable!" He glanced down at the hands he still held, wondering what on earth he would do now that Faramir was not pulling away from him. Nothing suggested itself as an obvious solution, yet he could not seem to relinquish his grip, feeling his brother's physical hold on him as a steadying influence. Closing his eyes, he shook his head and his let his posture slip somewhat as, of a sudden, all the day's tension seemed to dissipate at once, as sometimes happened after a hard-fought battle. "Valar, I am tired!"

  


"Then sleep, Boromir, for you need the rest," Faramir advised. 

  


"I doubt that I could!" Which was an admission that implied more than the a stranger might think, for both brothers had learned early on to take what rest they could whenever they could, war being the uncertain but exhausting endeavor that it was. Faramir's recent insomnia was therefore the more remarkable, indicative of the potency of that dream, and Boromir's current doubts were equally cause for worry. 

  


"You must!" Faramir replied, eliciting a snort of subdued laughter from his brother.

  


"Must I?" He squeezed Faramir's hands in his a moment, opening his eyes to gaze at his brother again. "You are not my father!"

  


"Fortunately," Faramir replied dryly.

  


"Quite. But you are no less my tormentor, Faramir," Boromir said seriously, deciding that he might as well address what lay still unresolved between them. _For otherwise, I may never have another chance to do so, and certainly I shall not rest unless I have at least tried to make him see what I see!_ "I know you mean well to come here, and think not that I am not grateful to you for your pains. But come a few hours, or even a few minutes, and I fear you may flee once more! Your head, as ever, would rule your heart, but in this I cannot trust your logic above your feelings, love," he said very deliberately, watching Faramir's reaction to the endearment. His brother blinked, then frowned, and Boromir could not be certain but he thought the hands within his trembled a bit. "See?"

  


Faramir's brow knit as he considered this, and after a few moments' thought, he sighed softly and raised his eyes once more to Boromir's. "You may be right, brother, but earlier today, I would not have dreamt of coming here, nor of chasing after you on a crowded street when you wished to avoid me."

  


Something about that admission touched on memory, dislodging and nudging words to the fore of Boromir's mind, and he closed his eyes once more as he murmured, "'Let me touch now mortal sickness that my love shall learn its toll!' Your Silvaríel knew well the darkness of our desires, Faramir! But to which side shall we fall, you and I? I cannot live with this uncertainty this wavering on your part, though I understand it well enough. If you cannot learn to love me fullynot as a lover but only as you did beforethen seek me no more. Let me find what peace I can alone!"

  


Faramir bit his lip, considering his brother's request. _Or rather, his plea! And he is right to make it, for it is not fair to him that I am so so inconstant. Alas that intuition spoke truly, for I know not whether I have the strength to grant his wish and mine!_ "I would regain what once we had," he said slowly. "For in truth, I miss you more than you might think possible. But I know not how to prove myself to you, Boromir, or even to myself, if I am honest!" Faramir replied, seeming weary now in his turn. His brother gave a slight shrug, as if in surrender to the uncertainty of the moment. "Know, though, that I would gladly return to what we had, if only you would satisfy me as to one point first, brother."

  


"And what point is that?"

  


"If we could between us devise a test that would convince you of my sincerity in this matter, would you wish for me to succeed? Or would you have me keep my distance? For in spite of your words, it is clear to me that you also are in doubt over this."

  


And Boromir, hearing that, frowned, realizing uncomfortably that Faramir did indeed have a point. _Would I wish him to prove that he can love me in spite of my love? Would it not be better to learn to live without it? Without even the hope of it?_ In one way, it would be so much easier if Faramir could not bring himself to overlook Boromir's quite ardent desire for him, for at least then there could be no confusion on Boromir's part. _But for years, I have thought there was no hope, and that did not ease my longing! Why must you ask me such questions, Faramir?_ "Once, I would have said 'yes' without hesitation," he replied at length, and felt more than saw Faramir wince at the qualifier. "After last nightindeed, after this week!and in spite of our father's scorn, I would still say 'yes,' but more cautiously." Boromir released Faramir's hands. But he risked reaching up to gently tug at a lock of hair that fell into Faramir's face, in imitation of his brother' s habit, ere he added, "For Denethor has made me see too much to love you freely and without pain. I fear it is my sentence that if I cannot surrender my passion, then nothing that comes of it shall ever be free of shame. And perhaps it is better thus, for even were you to desire me, I could never let you have so unworthy a lover as myself!" 

  


"I see," Faramir replied, considering this in silence for a short while. "I think you shall not be the only one to burn the midnight oil, brother!"

  


"Well, had I the luxury, I would do so. But as you advise, I shall try to rest, for I leave at dawn and know not how long the journey shall be," Boromir sighed softly. He turned and went to the bed, gathering the two travel sacks that lay there to set them down on the floor beneath the window. 

  


"Would you have me stay?" Faramir asked suddenly.

  


"I beg your pardon?" Boromir turned quickly, a perplexed look on his face, for his brother could not possibly mean that the way that it sounded.

  


"I said, would you have me stay? There is a chair in the other room I could use."

  
__

A chair of course! "And what would you do?" Boromir asked, relieved but curious.

  


For answer, Faramir crossed to the desk and picked up the book that Boromir had borrowed. "Your citation brought something to mind."

  


"Ah," Boromir paused, considering the request a moment. He could not fathom his brother's motives at the moment, but he recognized the tone: Faramir had caught on some idea and would not be content until he had explored it further. More, he wanted, for some reason unknown to Boromir, to remain and to refuse him would likely hurt him badly. _Well, and what matter is it if he stays to one who sleeps? For despite my earlier words, I feel a need of it desperately, and shall not stay awake for long._ "You are welcome to remain if you wish, and you know well where I keep everything."

  


"But would _you_ wish me to stay?" Faramir asked, emphasizing the pronoun.

  


"I have _always_ wished you to stay," Boromir responded, and was mildly surprised when that comment elicited naught but a nod. "What of Father? If he catches you here"

  


"Let him!" Faramir cut him off, and his tone was uncharacteristically sharp. Boromir nodded slightly, accepting the other's defiance even as he shuddered at the thought of that confrontation. _May it never occur!_ he prayed briefly to whatever power might hear a reprobate's plea. 

  


"Well, then, I wish you a good night. May you find what you seek."

  


"Good night, Boromir," Faramir obediently left for the antechamber, closing the door behind him. And Boromir stood there and wondered whether he ought to bar the door for safety's sake. _But what good would that do? It would not keep me here!_ But such considerations were merely the workings of a tired and dispirited soul, struggling to find a way through inner divisions without surrendering too much of his own essential matter. Matter which, as the course of fortune ran, had been shaped by that conflict, and in some deep sense knew not how to live without it. Considerations about the status of the door were therefore merely specious: Faramir was safe from him, and in truth, there was something oddly reassuring about the idea of him keeping watch just beyond the door. _When we were children, I remember he used to come to me whenever he had nightmares. He could not sleep alone. And now, thirty years later, our places are reversed!_ Though of course, Faramir would never now join him in bed, as he had when they were ten and five. _Stop that!_ he ordered himself. _Sleep now, since that is your purpose._ _Sleep! And let the morning bring what it may, for this is my last night in Minas Tirith for a time, and it will be long ere I lie in safety again._

  


***

  


As the night wore on in the other room, Faramir sat tucked up in the high-backed chair near the hearth, and though he did read, his attention was not focused. The words washed over him, sweeping through him like the tide only to withdraw again after a time, retreating from the shores of his mind. For though he sought one line among the multitude of Silvaríel's works, in truth he had come here to try once more to enter his brother's mind. The book provided a common point from which to begin, at least, and that was much tonight. This room, as Boromir had indicated with his passing remark, was intimately known to Faramir: surrounded by his brother's possessions, his arrangements, his tastes, it was easier for him to try to think as his brother did. _I have always loved him, and he has always loved me that is the constant in our lives, and now that it has been shaken!_ Faramir had always assumed before that Boromir, although quick-witted and not wholly unreflective, was not given to internal scrutiny, being generally confident in himself and his abilities. But having learned the extent of his brother's life-long struggle to hide his sexuality from others, Faramir had now doubts about his assumptions. Clearly, Boromir would have suffered doubt about himself, and would have had many opportunities to question his own motivations. Certainly, he still remained far more comfortable on the field than in the council, but rather than being simply a product of a less contemplative disposition, Faramir now wondered whether a part of that stated preference had not been carefully devised as a sort of camouflage. _Or perhaps it is more basic than that, even,_ he thought _. Perhaps it is the one place where he need not restrain himself, where his actions require no words and are their own justification._ And perhaps that was not as simple as it seemed, Faramir thought with a slight smile for his own complicated ways. 

  


With a soft sigh, he rose, carefully leaving the book open upon a stand, and made a circuit of the room. Boromir's tastes were less varied than his own, and also less subtle. He kept a number of small carvings from various regions of Gondor, and the tapestries on the walls were for color as much as to help keep out the chill of winter days. There were fewer books, and most of them had to do with military history rather than philosophy or art; there was a small collection of weaponry upon one wall, and Faramir knew that in addition to employing them decoratively, Boromir could wield any of them to deadly effect. _I suppose I could as well if pressed to it, but not with half the artistry,_ Faramir decided as he turned back to the book shelf, atop which sat a small, intricately carved box. The curling patterns of raised wood and the inlay of different types of bark to create an almost flame-like impression bore the stamp of the same craftsmanship that the carpet on Faramir's floor did. _And why should they not, for they came of the same place._ It had been Finduilas' once, and was one of the things that she had brought with her out of Dol Amroth to remind herself of her home. The box had gone back to Imrahil upon her death, and the brothers' uncle had in turn gifted it to Boromir when he had turned sixteen, as a remembrance of the sister that Imrahil had loved. It was therefore doubly a gift, and it was the only keep-sake that Boromir had of his mother. _Why this one item, and not any others?_ It was a question that he could ask of almost anything in this room. Boromir was not much of a collector, Faramir realized suddenly, for all that certain types of objects were repeated throughout the décor. For whereas others who collected carvings would stay with a particular theme or style or artisan, Boromir did not. One example of any given period or style seemed to be enough for him; the same might be said of the books on the shelves or the weapons, none of which were of the same type. _Just one._ _One box, one book of poetry, one city to call home one love just one just one._

  
__

Just once! The words he had sought earlier came suddenly to him, and Faramir pondered their significance as he stood gazing at the closed door that led to his brother's sleeping chamber. _Just once._ He could imagine Boromir asleep within, and who knew what dreams might visit him tonight? _What dreams had he last night, I wonder?_ Faramir thought with a shiver. _I would see him at peace! But can I bring myself to do what I think is needed? Ever he sought to stand before me, to shield me when I was threatened weak. From him I learned honor, and also the meaning of courage. We keep each other, and always have, and I would not lose that, either through Father's intervention or my own actions._ What constituted the right course in this singular situation, Faramir could not be certain, for no feat of reasoning could lead him from the tangled skein of conflicted allegiances and emotions. _Whatever I decide, I must not act half-heartedly, for that would be cruel. Whence comes conviction, though? Whence comes courage enough not to flinch?_ Closing his eyes, Faramir blew out a sigh and after a few moments he reopened them. In the end, the well-spring of his strength had its roots in many places, but in time of crisis, he knew whither he always turned: towards his brother. With that thought firmly in mind, he blew out the candle by which he had read and stalked across the room. Silent as a hawk on the wing, he opened the door, and slipped inside his brother's chambers.

  


 

  



	12. Bread for the Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slash fic with a high angst content, now complete. The curious shall read, the others will blithely remain ignorant of even the 'pairing.' Nothing new added, merely posting cleaner copies of the chapters, as I've been meaning to do for awhile now.

  


Consciousness burrowed through dusty oblivion, insisting that he wake, and Boromir gave a soft, sleepy grunt, acknowledging the proddings of his body's time sense. Dawn would come soon, and though in his somnolent state he could not quite remember why, he knew he needed to arise. But as he lay there, letting awareness percolate slowly but steadily through the screen of his dreaming mind, he felt a slight shiver work its way down his spine. It was a feeling he had had before, and all too often, it had that flavor of warning to it that demanded instant reaction. Today it was not threatening so much as weighty, but still, Boromir jerked suddenly and fully awake to the certainty that he was being watched.

  


_But I am still in Minas Tirith!_ He had slept half-curled on his side, head laid on the pillow that he cradled in the crook of one arm. So, as he now swiftly pushed himself up onto an elbow, he was for a moment blinded by the mass of his long hair that tumbled into his face. With a shake of his head and the aid of one hand, he dragged the unruly strands from his eyes and squinted into the dimness of the room. He needed but a few moments to discover the source of his unease, and Boromir felt his cheeks heat in the darkness. "Faramir… why are you here?"

  


"Good morrow to you as well," Faramir replied from where he stood leaning back against the wall, hands pressed flat behind him. 

  


"Mmm." Boromir could not for the life of him think of a more intelligent reply, and he shook his head again in an attempt to rouse himself to clearer thoughts. "Varda's stars!" he swore softly, feeling his startled embarrassment begin to spawn other, unwelcome emotions. _Why has he come, and how long has he stood there?_ he wondered. _I should have barred that door after all!_ For he was acutely aware of the fact that he wore nothing beneath the sheets (it was too hot!), and given the strained relationship that he and Faramir had endured for a week now, he felt his brother's presence as an intrusion. 

  


_For I know not what he intends, nor how to act! What does he want? And how do I rid myself of him long enough to dress?_ Such were the considerations that raced through his mind, and fear threaded his pulse—an anxious anticipation and wonderment at Faramir's motives. Letting his hair once more act as a screen, he rubbed at his eyes; the whole scene seemed almost unreal, dream-like, and he wondered if perhaps he might wake soon…. 

  


As if to reassure him of the reality of the moment, an uneven, soft mass struck him, glancing off his shoulders and head, coming unraveled as it came to rest atop him.

  


"Father expects you gone shortly, I should think," Faramir said, offering the barest of smiles and ignoring the glare that his brother shot him from beneath the shirt and trousers that now draped him. "Best that you not dare his wrath with so trivial a thing as tardiness." His brother then pushed himself away from the wall and wandered deliberately to the other side of the room, there to examine some unimportant item. Boromir was not one to waste the privacy Faramir had just granted him, and he hurriedly drew the underdrawers on, then the trousers, standing quickly to pull them up. The shirt followed swiftly, and, breaking with his usual routine, he snatched his belt from the trunk beside his bed and hastily buckled it before he sat down to pull his boots on.

  


Safely attired, if not quite fully dressed, he turned to consider his brother's back as he began collecting the rest of his clothing: mail, overtunic, jerkin, sword-belt, and cloak. The chain mail went on first over the shirt, and though it was an awkward affair to struggle into the garment, Boromir had worn it too often to get caught in it, and he quickly settled it, adjusting the thin leather padding that lined the shoulder region. It was a poor concession to a very relative measure of comfort, but after so many years of sleeping in the stuff when necessary, Boromir scarcely heeded the weight. And Faramir, hearing the telltale _chink!_ turned slowly from his contemplation of a candle to watch him once more. 

  


It was a strange feeling that that quiet scrutiny aroused, and Boromir fought with the sensation that he stood exposed. Somehow, it felt indecent to face his brother when he still had not all of his clothes on, even if they had often seen each other in less than this. _How truth known in full doth change things!_ Boromir would have given much to know what thoughts passed through Faramir's mind at that moment, but he could not ask, for fear of what he might discover. There was something in that clear-eyed gaze that whispered of intimate familiarity with all that Boromir was, and more, of some weighty pronouncement yet untold. Boromir felt himself examined, touched upon and turned about, taken apart by the mind behind those eyes, _seen_ through and through; and it struck him of a sudden that what he felt now was likely close kin to his brother's discomfort under Boromir's too ardent gaze. Oddly, the thought seemed to calm him somewhat, though he knew not why it should, and he returned Faramir's stare as steadily as he could whilst he continued to dress himself.

  


"How shall you go, Boromir? Through Rohan to the Gap, or northward first, to try to find a way through the high passes on this side of the mountains?" Faramir asked, breaking the silence. 

  


"Through Rohan and the Gap. The region between Mirkwood and the mountains is little known, but the maps give the land a treacherous reputation," Boromir replied, fastening the clips and ties that held the jerkin shut. "Eriador is at least said to be flatter." 

  


"I see. And is there aught that I may do to help in the time left? Return books?" A pause, then, "Give your farewells to our father?"

  


"Never jest about that!" Boromir said, rather more sharply than he had really intended. With a shake of his head, he sighed. "And I do not ask that of you, for I fear our father would but resent the messenger the more." Boromir paused, half-expecting Faramir to respond, but his brother said naught, only nodded thoughtfully. Cocking his head at the other as he finished with the jerkin, Boromir decided that tact was wasted at this late hour. "Why came you here this morning?" he asked bluntly, buckling his sword-belt on.

  


"To see you," Faramir replied, eliciting a rather perplexed look from Boromir. "To watch you dream, and see you once more without a wall between us. To relearn the reasons that I fear you not." 

  


"You were here all night?"

  


"Much of it," the other admitted. Once within his brother's room, Faramir had spent the night pacing slowly and silently, pausing now and again to watch his brother for long spells. It had been many years since he had had the opportunity to observe Boromir like that—since Faramir had been ten, or even younger, for Boromir had soon moved into another room. And later, he had been assigned to the various companies, of course, and was rarely at home. 

  


_But I remember watching him when my dreams banished all rest_ , he thought. More, that peculiar habit of youth had remained with him throughout his life. Faramir rarely slept through the night, for even had he not the watch to supervise at times, he found it helpful to watch _others_ sleep. A commander could learn much of those who served him by such nocturnal observation: the troubles of the day tended to show in faces no longer concerned to guard themselves, and in the insomnia of some, while others slept like dead things as if fearful to wake. Whereas by day, a man's pride refused to admit to limits, by night Faramir found it easy to judge who could be pushed further, and who hovered close to collapse. Sometimes men would come out of their nightmares and, finding Faramir awake, would even speak to him about them, for his own reputation as a dreamer was an abiding one. 

  


Over the long years, in fact, the idiosyncrasy had become something of a company tradition, and only the newcomers were surprised to learn that their captain served as counselor at need. But after a few months or years, even the wariest eventually sought him out, for all knew that his discretion was absolute and that he would not laugh at the images that came to the sleeping mind. For his part, Faramir treasured such encounters; they were a way of knowing another, one that required only a willingness to watch first and then to listen, and it helped Faramir to better understand the needs of his flock of soldiers. 

  


As for Boromir, Faramir had been relieved that his brother had slept soundly last night, although to one accustomed to gauge the mood of dreamers, there had been an edge of uneasiness to his repose that was telling. _I know not if he shall ever truly be free of this, nor how the events of the past ten days shall shape his path from now until the end,_ Faramir thought worriedly. _What pride he has, I fear, may cover over a despair of self, and who knows whether it always has? That brashness that others saw in him, that willingness to stand ever in the path of destruction… might it not be a way of inviting death? And if so, then after this week, I doubt not that his control may slip. He may misjudge the danger that he is to himself, thinking that he knows already the worst. But brother mine, you have not even begun to plumb those depths, for you have a good heart and I think in one sense you know not the meaning of the word, 'worst.' For what you see as the worst of yourself is born of love, and not merely of lust._

  


Such were the thoughts that had come to him during the course of the night as he had kept watch, and he wondered how long he had harbored the seeds of his doubts and observations, for they had come forth fully formed, with no hesitation, as if in some secret recess of his soul he had long tended them. _I only wish I knew the depths to which I could sink, for then I might know whence come such thoughts. For one must carry darkness within one to understand it fully._

  


How to convey all that to Boromir was a problem he still had not solved, and Faramir felt a touch of desperation himself. His brother was not one to put much stock in theory, but there was only so much that Faramir could _do_ , and still he could not be certain whether what he would do would do more good than harm. Boromir was watching him now, with that look in his eyes that said he knew not what passed through his younger brother's mind, but knew nonetheless that it was serious. After a moment longer, Boromir asked, "You say… 'reasons that you fear me not.' What mean you by that?"

  


"That I needed to remember them, and that I have. Last night, you said that if we could find some way to prove my commitment, that perhaps we might have a chance regain what we lost."

  


"Yes…." Boromir replied cautiously, and wondered at his brother's words. _Has he truly spent the night thinking of that?_ It was a possibility, for Faramir was tenacious and not one to leave an idea half thought-out. Still, he could not imagine what test they might make of his brother's heart. 

  


"We neglected, however, to say aught of you, Boromir," Faramir continued, arching a brow at him. "Beneath and behind all your words, you also fear to love me, and that anxiety remains with you, even in sleep. Is that not so?"

  


Boromir frowned, scrutinizing his brother's face, seeking some sign of whither he would go with this inquiry, but Faramir had his mask in place, confounding his efforts. "I fear to hurt you, Faramir… to… to dirty you, somehow," he replied, painfully and looked away as he spoke. Not that that helped overmuch, for Faramir simply moved with him, intent upon remaining in his field of vision. 

  


"But that is a part of how you love me, and much though you or I might wish it, can you begin to untangle what is now firmly bound together?" Faramir asked rhetorically, for they both knew the answer. "So, if you cannot learn to tame that fear, then we shall never truly be reconciled, any more than if I fail to tame mine. We have learned too well to despise ourselves, Boromir. _That_ is Father's true legacy to us both!" the younger man said bitterly. 

  


"The case is different, though! I _should_ not love you thus, Faramir. Father was correct in that at least!" Boromir protested, unable to fathom that his brother now seemed to defend what had repulsed—indeed, what must still repulse—him. 

  


"But you do, and if Father could not bleed that out of you with his words, then nothing shall! You know that, or why else have you so carefully hidden your desire for so long? And if you have spent so long learning to hold it in check, then what matters it now that I know your secret? Why, indeed, should I fear that you love me?" Faramir asked, and watched as Boromir seemed to rock back on his heels a bit before the intensity of that sharp inquiry. "Why should you fear to love me, knowing that you will never act upon what you feel?"

  


"Perhaps because I am not so certain of myself as you seem to think!" Boromir managed hoarsely, shaking his head. "Do you know how hard it is to have you so near? To touch you or to stand at your side? To listen to you read poetry? I dream of you, Faramir!" 

  


"And I have dreamt of you as well," his brother replied, which sent a ripple of shock through Boromir. "What of that?"

  


"Not as I dream of you, I think," Boromir challenged. 

  


"I dreamt that you lay with me, and touched me, as you would have touched your lover," Faramir responded, watching his brother's incredulous reaction. "And though I found no pleasure in that dream, neither has it sullied me, as you put it."

  


"Valar, I do not need to hear this!" Boromir murmured, folding his arms across his chest as he turned away, overwhelmed by a number of conflicting emotions. On the one hand, he could not accept what Faramir now told him, for such revelations and considerations only muddied already dark waters further. On the other, there was such sincerity in his brother's manner that he could not doubt that what he said now came from the conjunction of heart and head, mind and soul, and Boromir was truly glad that Faramir at least seemed to have made peace with his brother's unnatural passion. And in amid relief and confusion, there was a sort of desperate hope, a flutter of desirous anticipation that yearned to make itself felt, to break free for a moment of the shackles Boromir had set upon it. _No! I may not allow that!_ But as Faramir came once more to stand before him, he realized that it might not be a question of "may" but only of "can": _Can I hold this within me if he continues on as he does?_ To which the answer came back resoundingly: _I know not!_

  


"If you would not have me turn from you, then do not hide from me, Boromir!" Faramir said, seeming almost angry with him. "You said that you would have me learn to love you once more, but how can I do so if by your actions and words you tell me that you find nothing of worth in yourself? I have never wanted to pity you, Boromir, but you shall drive me to it if you will not face me!" That stang something to life, and Boromir frowned as he jerked his glance up to his brother's face once more and his spine stiffened. "Better!" Faramir murmured. "Now tell me: what do you want of me? If I can give it, I shall."

  


"And if you cannot?" Boromir queried, cocking a brow at the other. "What then?"

  


"If I cannot, I shall tell you and let you judge whether I have failed the test," the other replied. 

  


_What do I want of him? What a question!_ The innumerable fantasies that the mind could spin out in an instant assailed him, but he irritably brushed them aside. _Fantasy I have had, and dreams as well, but he asks not after those! What would I have of him, here and now, in waking life where dreams should have no hold?_ That was a far more difficult decision to make, and for a moment, Boromir despaired of finding an answer. _I must leave, and soon! Who knows but that all of Gondor depends upon the words of that rhyme, and yet I stand here and waver over so simple a question!_ It seemed a gross injustice to all concerned, and certainly it ought to be beneath him to hesitate like this when he knew that duty lay just outside his doorstep. But he was held to his spot by the look on Faramir's face, by the steadiness in those grey eyes that nevertheless seemed fierce. 

  


Boromir blinked, recognizing in that ferocity a protectiveness that he was not accustomed to see directed towards him. Almost always before, it had been he who had protected Faramir, and certainly he had few peers to whom to turn for shelter. _None, in fact, for it is not my place to let others defend me,_ he thought, and felt a sort of sigh escape him as, without quite intending it, he reached out and traced the line of his brother's face from temple to chin with a gentle fingers. "For years, I feared you would scorn me if ever you discovered my desire. And here you stand, willing to give me whatever I wish… save one thing only!" He smiled, dropping his hand to his brother's shoulder. "I shall not ask you for that. How could I, after our words last night? I should be content with what I have."

  


"Are you, though?" Faramir asked, suspicious of the subjunctive. 

  


"Will you never cease to ask me questions?"

  


"Only when I have my answer!" Boromir considered his brother another long moment, still not quite able to believe that they could even discuss this at all. _And it may be our last discussion for a long while! I would not end it on an ill note, but neither would I end it with uncertainty._ That would be a torment indeed, the long road with naught but doubt to return to in the end. In the mean time…. _A long journey alone_ ….

  


"I would have something to remember you by," Boromir said at last, and then gave a slight smile. "And I would have you choose it, whatever it is." _Now let us see what he says!_

  


Faramir frowned slightly, but in consideration, rather than in disconcertion, it seemed. And it seemed to Boromir, as he watched his brother's eyes flick over his face, that the other was not surprised, either. _As if he expected me to somehow turn him aside thus_ , he thought, and wondered suddenly if he had been outmaneuvered. _And if so, how badly? All night he has had to think of this…!_ But Boromir had not known himself what he would do, so how could Faramir possibly anticipate him? To which the nagging voice of reason replied, _He knows you too well! How many times have you seen it? He and Father are alike in their ability to know a man's heart better than its owner knows it._

  


"I shall return your book for you," Faramir said then, and Boromir blinked, thrown off by the non sequitur. "But before I do, tell me, do you recall this one: 'But once, my love, for life is swift! and death doth steal the days…'?"

  


"'Taste my love but once, my love, and kiss me once for always,'" Boromir finished the quotation and found himself staring once more at Faramir. It was certainly a poem that had caught his eye, and further proof of his brother's uncanny ability to judge him. And although he was almost certain that he knew the other's intent, a part of him simply could not believe it. "Faramir...?" he asked, trailing off, awaiting something more solid than a half-suggestive poetical reference.

  


"So… kiss me once, brother. _One_ time, as you would… and so remember me," Faramir replied softly, coming to stand close, and try as he might, Boromir could detect no play in his voice. _He is in earnest!_ Words crowded on the tip of his tongue—exclamations, questions, confusion—but the look in the other's eyes stilled them all. _If I do this… shall I be able to stop there? Just one kiss… at once everything I could ask for, and yet so much less than I would wish! Almost as much a temptation as a satisfaction!_ In the end, though, whatever his doubts, it was not really a decision, nor even a question: he would kiss him. 

  


So, although incredulity still held his heartbeat suspended, Boromir reached out with one hand and drew a fingertip down Faramir's body, til he settled first one hand and then the other just above his brother's hips. His brother's eyes followed the caress, but he did not prevent it, and so Boromir leaned slowly forward. Still Faramir did not flinch, nor draw away even when his brother paused, as if to give him the chance to do so. And since he did not, Boromir did kiss him, very carefully: just a light kiss on the mouth as if to test the other's resolve. _Or my own!_ But neither of the brothers wavered. 

  


Warmth seemed to flood through Boromir as his heart remembered to beat once more, and his eyes closed of their own accord as he risked a little more pressure, a little more insistence, deepening the kiss. He could feel the rasp of the other's beard against his own, and Faramir hesitated only a second before he yielded to the flick of his brother's tongue against his lips, opening his mouth slightly. As Boromir reached up then to catch hold—gently, mindful of the bruises—of his brother's face with both hands, he felt Faramir clutch his arms as if to steady himself, and to his delight, he felt the other begin now to return the kiss rather than simply allow it. 

  


Never before had Boromir been so aware of another in all his infinite particularity, or of the pleasure that could come of such visceral knowledge. Faramir was too tall for Boromir to draw him against him as they kissed, and he could not be certain in any case whether the other would be receptive to such an embrace. But as ever, Boromir was very conscious of the contours of the lean, wiry body that hovered tantalizingly close. Faramir's scent filled his nostrils, filled his mouth so that he could taste him with every breath; the texture of his skin beneath Boromir's callused hands proved an unexpectedly sensual tactile stimulus; and the feel of his pulse throbbing against Boromir's fingertips measured out moments of eternity—a subtle vibration that stirred the two of them, and set them to resonate with each other it seemed. 

  


Faramir drew his tongue across Boromir's lower lip, accidentally reopening that cut, but though the younger man tensed somewhat, he did not withdraw at the taste of blood. For his part, Boromir felt the slight sting only added another dimension of feeling to the moment: after all the pain of the past ten days (or indeed, of the past twenty years of silent, hopeless adoration) the hurt seemed not unfitting. It felt right, and perhaps his brother sensed that; it was, after all, his blood as well—the blood of the stewards of Gondor, shed so often for others and now, just once, shed solely for and by one beloved. _Just one kiss…._ For Boromir doubted not that his brother meant what he had said: there would be no other time, and any kiss subsequent to this must never be as between lovers. So small a gesture, and yet the measure of all that Boromir held dear. _But once indeed, my love!_

  


He felt one of the hands on his arms free itself to touch his face, a caress as careful as the mouth that responded to his need, and more hesitant at that, but there and real. There was a certain curiosity in that touch, as well, and he felt a pang as Faramir's fingertips gently explored the curve of a cheekbone, then drifted back to push a long strand of dark hair behind Boromir's ear ere they wandered down the side of his neck and came to rest eventually on his chest, just over his heart. He recognized that touch, remembered it with painful clarity, but somehow, the gesture was transformed when Faramir did it, becoming a sign and seal of forgiveness rather than a memory of shame. He knew not what alchemy his brother practiced, but whatever it was, it struck something deep, and Boromir gave a whimper (there was no other word for it) as he eased back from his brother at last and more abruptly than he might wish. 

  


Shaky, overwhelmed, and uncertain whether he stood now on the verge of tears or laughter, he gazed at the other whose face he still held gently cupped in his hands. Faramir's eyes remained closed, and his breathing was none too steady either… and he had never been more beautiful to Boromir. After a moment, his brother ran his tongue along his lips and swallowed hard, opening his eyes to gaze into his brother's. Obsidian, they seemed, for there was but a thin ring of grey to distinguish iris from pupil, and Boromir tenderly brushed a dark lock from the other's face and ran his fingers back through his brother's hair. "Can you forgive me?" For what, he did not say, nor could he have said had he been asked, but it seemed not to matter.

  


"I forgave you yesterday," Faramir replied simply, managing a slight smile. And there was something so very endearing in the expression that accompanied those words that Boromir automatically started to lean forward again. But this time his brother did step away, if only slightly, and the hand on his chest pressed harder to hold him back. "Once, and for always," he reminded him, but there was no reproof in his voice. In fact, Boromir fancied he heard a touch of remorse, but quickly dismissed the idea. 

  


"Romantic!" he growled instead, chucking him under the chin ere he released his brother fully, forcing himself to put the moment behind him.

  


"Terribly, I suspect," Faramir agreed with a self-conscious laugh, folding his arms across his chest. But then he sobered and said, "Be careful, Boromir! For Gondor needs you here to lead her. And," he added, exhaling slowly, "I need you as well."

  


Boromir only nodded, unable to formulate a response past the sudden constriction of his throat, and he berated himself for the lapse in his self-control. Going to the window, he stooped and retrieved his baggage, slinging his pack over one shoulder and his horn over the other. Faramir came and took the saddle bags, twining the straps about his left wrist and hand, and for a moment, they stood, watching each other. Then Boromir smiled, and clapped his brother on the shoulder as he said softly, "I will remember," and meant more than just Faramir's latest words.

  


"So shall I!" his brother responded, and then led the way out of the door….

  


***

  


… as Denethor turned away from the _palantír_ and felt the fissures in the ice of his self-control widen. Leaning his head in his hand, he bitterly cursed fate even as he strove to suppress the disgust that welled up within him. _And so they have decided, it seems! Well that Boromir shall be gone, but I doubt that that shall change aught!_ He had not been able to hear what his sons had said to each other—the Seeing Stones were precisely that, unless two stones were aligned to permit their users to communicate—but the sentiments seemed damnably clear. A brief moment he wondered whether he ought not to have sent Faramir after all, but when he had made his decision, it had seemed that Faramir was the safer of the two. 

  


_And in truth, if the journey is hard, Boromir is better suited to it. Whatever my fears, Gondor must have answers if it is to survive!_ Even in his despairing disappointment, the needs of the realm came first, before any personal consideration. But that did not mean that Denethor would ever forget that intimate scene. _I have fought for so long to hold back the darkness, and yet it pervades our very bodies! Curse you both for weaklings and worthless!_ But there was naught that he could do without rousing suspicion as to the source of his knowledge. And given that it was Faramir who remained, there was also the remote—but not incalculable—possibility that he might realize the steward's own guilt. 

  


_And so I say nothing, and since I shall need Faramir to serve in his brother's stead, I can make certain he has no time to fall any further. As for Boromir, at least I can depend upon his loyalty to Gondor to drive him back to me when the errand is done. Ah, my son, alas for the blood in your veins!_ With a soft sigh, Denethor stood and veiled the _palantír_ once more, and as he went slowly down the stairs, he could not help but feel that he descended into the muck and grime of a world in chaos. _Laugh if you will, Sauron, at this tragedy of a family! However tainted, we can still stand, and stand we shall! To the last throw… yes, though we have no hope left, whatever the fools below may say, we continue to the last toss of the die!_

  


***

  


Faramir tightened the straps that held the saddle-bags in place and gave the mare's neck an affectionate slap. The roan whickered at him, butting him gently in the stomach with her nose, hoping for a treat most likely. "Naught today, lass," he murmured, stroking the animal's long face. It had been a long and quiet walk down to the Second Circle, both of them preoccupied and a little uncertain of themselves. For his part, the taste of his brother's mouth and blood still lingered, and Faramir had let that flavor roll about his tongue, wondering what to make of what they had shared. 

  


He had not expected to enjoy it, not really, but for all that he still felt no attraction to his brother, it would be a lie to say that he had felt nothing in his brother's arms. _For I do love him, and however disconcerting it might be to be the object of my brother's very passionate attention, I suppose in the end that I am curious enough—and possessive enough!—to want to know what he is like in love._ Faramir had tried to make his own kiss everything he would have wanted to share with his brother, though that fell short of what Boromir might want. _But I did not flinch, and I shall cherish the memory._

  


_Romantic!_ Boromir had accused, and Faramir was rather surprised that it had never occurred to him to see himself thus.He supposed he had never had reason to, knowing that his own courtships would end unfulfilled, out of obedience to his father's will. They came and they went, and he never gave himself wholly over to them, for that would have been unkind and misleading. He knew his own reputation among the women of the court: kind, lordly... distant. 

  


_And so how strange, to hear that from him, when it is plain there is no further to go between us,_ he thought. Perhaps because it was Boromir, and the trust undergirding their love ran deeper than the passion of a moment or a month that women had inspired, ran deep enough that they needed not appearances to see each other clearly, if only they would...

  


Boromir grunted then, giving the cinch a sharp tug and nodding his satisfaction as he slung his shield across his back. _So the quest for Imladris begins, and though it had to end in parting, I wish I were going as well!_ For now that the moment drew nigh, Faramir was stricken with the feeling that he had to say all, and he bit his tongue against the temptation to babble on like an idiot. His brother joined him at the mare's head, lead rein in one hand, and he, too, gave the horse's nose a pat, but his eyes were on Faramir. "Can you face Denethor?" Boromir asked, rather abruptly. 

  


"If I must, then I shall. And since I must, you need not fear overmuch," Faramir replied by way of reassurance, and possibly with more confidence than he felt. Boromir nodded, apparently satisfied with his answer. 

  


"Tell him then…." His brother paused, seeming to marshal his thoughts, trying to pick just the right words. "Tell him I have gone. And tell him—tell him I shall not forget Gondor's need. In that he may always rely on me." Faramir did not miss the unspoken implications, nor the regret and hurt that still clung to those words, but he said naught, only nodded in his turn. The sun was creeping now over the gloom of the Ephel Duath, and in the courtyard without, shadows sprang up as the light stole over the city. Few people as yet were about, and the stable yard was still quiet as Boromir glanced over his shoulder at that lighted square, hesitating. "Faramir," he began as he turned back, and then could say no further. 

  


For Faramir, in that brief space, stepped around the horse and without asking or warning, caught his brother's head to still him and kissed him again: once on the mouth, a swift but not insubstantial kiss, and then another, more lingering one on the forehead. Farewell it was, after the custom of Gondor, but more than that. A promise of chaste love, and if it was not that of one who would share Boromir's every touch, it was still more than mere fraternal affection. _For though we are brothers, we are somehow more than that. I know not what to call it, and perhaps it is unique in all the world—I know not! Nor do I care,_ Faramir thought.

  


"Strength for the journey," he said softly. "Be at peace, Boromir!"

  


Boromir blinked swiftly, and a look of wonderment crossed his face as he risked a quick caress of his brother's cheek. "Beg nothing from him," he murmured. "Nothing! And so let Denethor learn the measure of your worth!"

  


"I shall not."

  


"Good. Come then, if you will, for I can tarry no longer." Faramir walked his brother out of the stables, and through the great gates that led to the first circle. From there, it was not a long distance, compared to the rest of the walk, to the city gates that opened onto the fields of the Pelennor. Boromir swung up into the saddle, and the mare snorted, eager to be off, but the Steward's Heir held her steady a moment longer. "Wish me luck!"

  


"Good luck!" Faramir replied obediently. Boromir gave him a quick smile, and then tugged the reins to turn the horse. 

  


"Ha! Go!" And horse and rider were off, heading north-west to the Anórien gate and seeming to try to out-race the rising sun. Faramir heaved a soft sigh, and tried to ignore the dread that came to sit upon his chest. 

  


_I shall see him again. Of that I am certain, so why this fear?_ Tearing his eyes from the west, he turned now to the tower that rose glittering in the dawn's light. _Put it aside, Faramir, you have work to do, and it is only just begun!_ And as he resolutely began the long march upwards, from over the fields came the clear sound of a horn, and he smiled as others answered from the walls.

  
__

Farewell, brother!

  


********

  


But once, my love, for life is swift! And death doth steal the days!

  


Taste my love but once, my love, and kiss me once for always!

  


The tale is told, the dance is done, the web is now unspun.

  


Time lays low the mountains high and cleaves now two from one.

  


But soft, my love, my silent love, and speechless though I be,

  


Forsake me not but once my love, dim not thy memory!

  


And yet my tongue grows weary now, and cannot shape thy name,

  


Forsake me not still, o my love, and on my lips at last remain!

  


\--Silvaríel of Arnor

  


  



	13. Note to My Readers (Optional)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slash fic with a high angst content, now complete. The curious shall read, the others will blithely remain ignorant of even the 'pairing.' Nothing new added, merely posting cleaner copies of the chapters, as I've been meaning to do for awhile now.

Note to my readers:

"From the Other River Bank" is my first foray into the slash genre; whether it is my last, I do not know at this point. But in either case, I didn't write it without some fairly specific goals in mind. One of them I mentioned in the Author's Note, but I thought I'd share my motivations with you, as well as clarify a point that's come up (always very politely, for which I thank you all) a number of times in reviews and e-mails. 

As I said in the Author's Note, one of the main reasons for writing this story was to infuse (carefully and not without trepidation) a convincing backdrop for a homosexual relationship into LoTR while still respecting the integrity of the canon, both in characterization and chronological detail. That's why I haven't labeled this an AU: I don't want it to be an outright AU or to be judged as such. I aimed for a solid "missing scenes" story that would be a plausible set up for the events of LoTR, but from a standpoint dealing with homosexuality. Whether I have succeeded or not is up to the individual reader to decide; I'd like to think I've taken my best shot, and though I may continue to tweak some of the details (references to Saruman had to be redone, for example, when I realized Saruman's treachery was revealed six days after Boromir had already left Minas Tirith. Oops!), on the whole, I doubt the story will undergo major revisions. 

Slash writing interests me primarily because it reminds me that heterosexuality is not the only way to love someone else, and especially with male-male relationships, it opens a whole range of feeling and interaction that is normally suppressed for fear of misinterpretation. Since slash by its nature is an interpretation (and only an interpretation, as may be said of all other fanfic), that inhibition is removed. Slash to me is also a very political form of writing, and not because of any desire (or lack thereof) on the part of its authors to make it political. It simply is thus because what it is dictates where it stands in relationship to the so-called norm, i.e., heterosexual pairings. To me, that makes it a perfect match for LoTR, where the characters are not heroes because they want to be, but because who they are dictates their responsibilities at a given point in time. In this particular story, I might also borrow the phrase "the personal is political" to describe some of what happens in Gondor's capital. Granted, all of this is my own opinion and you are not obligated to share it in any way; but since it is my opinion, I can't see this story having a point if I'm not perfectly frank with you about it. It's an internal standard of consistency between author and work, if you will. I think slash, given its position in fanfic, deserves to be taken very very seriously on a number of levels, and I hope I've done this much maligned genre justice with "From the Other River Bank." 

Other reasons for this story's existence are a bit less weighty. Personally, I like a challenge, but not just any off-the-wall challenge. I could easily come up with a tale where Aragorn smokes pot (funny how all the movie-goers seem to twitter at references to "weed" and "leaf") and dreams about having sex with Boromir. I could have Boromir make love to Faramir after the bridge of Osgiliath collapsed out of sheer gratitude for being alive. I could have Legolas make out with Treebeard, and how's that for a weird pairing? The ultimate expression of an Elf's love of the trees! But that's not really a challenge, since it's just me letting my imagination wander off the deep end. Maybe someone else could make that work, but that would then properly be someone else's task and not mine. And then, of course, there's the absolute dearth of Faramir stories out there, which is really a shame because he's so eminently writeable. Put him together with Boromir and it's killing two birds with one stone, since neither of them get the attention they deserve. Stick Denethor in there as well, and you've essentially shot a whole flock of birds, given that Denethor isn't all that popular in any sense of the word. 

Finally, I get asked/get comments about the fact that I wrote about incest. For the record, I did not write an "incest story." No, I'm not related to Bill Clinton, either. Honestly, when I began this, the idea was not: "Let's write a story about brothers who fall in love with each other." Boromir and Faramir coincidentally are related to each other in a very integral way, but the deeply affectionate bond that they seem to have enjoyed strikes me as quite singular: it's undeniably related to and grown out of their brotherhood, but somewhere along the way, I think it transcends the ties of blood and fraternity even while remaining based in them. The only other story I can think of where I find this to be the case is "Advantages of Mortality," a very brief exploration of Elladan and Elrohir. I owe Amy Fortuna a huge debt of retrospective gratitude for proving with that story that not only was LOTR slash possible, but that it could be done well, tastefully, and believably. "From the Other River Bank" wasn't even a glimmer in my eye at that point, but once I started writing it, it helped to have in the back of my mind another brother/brother pairing that (in my opinion at least) worked beautifully and gave me a benchmark for my own work.

I also owe ElizChris, Gayle M, Hildegard Holmes and Caerulea many thanks for their critiques and wonderful correspondence. They doubtless will recognize this "Note" as having sprung from our e-mail conversations, and I hope they will forgive me for using the material that came out of those (very fruitful) exchanges.

Thanks for letting me write! 

\--Dwimordene


End file.
